


D&DS9

by Crowtoed



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Comedy, Dungeons & Dragons References, Ensemble Cast, Jadzia Dax is a dice gremlin, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roleplay, Slice of Life, Some angst, is it crack?, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21731278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowtoed/pseuds/Crowtoed
Summary: Jake Sisko discovers an antique Earth game called 'Dungeons & Dragons'. When he starts up a campaign aboard Deep Space 9, its residents become caught up in tabletop fever, fantastical shenanigans, and MAYBE (just maybe) new relationships.
Relationships: (Eventual), Jadzia Dax/Kira Nerys, Jake Sisko/Tora Ziyal, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 126
Kudos: 150





	1. Prologue: The Call of Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my partner, so-i-did-this-thing and my pal baronvonchop for the ideas/brainstorming help.

Originally Jake wasn’t really interested in writing or reading fantasy. What was the point of dragons and magic when enough bizarre incidents to fill a novel happened on the station every week? Transporter accidents, wormhole aliens, and the odd visit from Lwxana Troi made unicorns and curses downright mundane. Fantasy didn’t seem like a challenge, like the writer got off easy by depending on whimsical window dressing instead of focusing on the hard truth of the characters.

Three things which happened in short order had him scrambling for a new genre: Nog left for the Academy, the Dominion’s presence crept into daily life, and Jake met the Bookseller.   
  
Nog’s departure left Jake to his own devices. At first it was exciting. Being a writer, he expected creativity to fill his days. Words would gush out of him like an unchecked tachyon leak. His humble paper notepad would be filled with ideas and he’d have to track down another one! After a few days though, it felt like an exercise in tedium. And frustration. And couch sweat.   
  
Everyone seemed to have a purpose on the station except for him. Without a doubt, he _wanted_ to focus on writing. He wanted to be ready to ship out to Pennington once circumstances and the beginning of a new term synced up with a bundle of work ready, but that left him in a state of inert readiness. On a good day he shuffled a few sentences of  _ Anslem _ or a paragraph of an article around before his Dad got home. Most days he just shuffled around the station. Doctor Bashir and his Dad concluded that he was depressed, but Jake was sure it was something medication couldn’t fix- that he just needed the right inspiration- so he declined.    
  
Attacks by the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant, tensions with the Klingon Empire, and constant threats to the station didn’t help either. From tower to transporters the mood had tightened like a string on a Vulcan harp. In the Replimat he heard people talking about casualty lists or ships lost. Wounded travelers cycled through the infirmary. A Starfleet mortuary officer had to be appointed when funeral arrangements became too frequent for the medical team to handle themselves. Now he needed a motivation _and_ escapism. Everybody did.

“Hey,” his Dad reached over and touched his shoulder one evening during dinner. Jake had been twirling the same piece of spaghetti on his fork for several minutes. It wasn’t any more appetizing than it had started. “A few traveling merchants are setting up on the Promenade. Why don’t you go check them out? Maybe see if there’s some interesting news you could do a story on?”

His Dad had been trying the last few weeks with the loving tenacity that only a Sisko possessed. They’d been on excursions both real and holographic, tried teaching him how to pilot a runabout, even invited him to card nights with the senior officers (although that had gotten awkward quickly. If there’s one thing he couldn’t stand, it was his Dad’s friends hanging out with him out of pity). Nothing lifted him out of his distress, but Jake appreciated it. At the end of a listless day he could depend on a Ben Sisko bear hug or to watch an old baseball game on the couch. It was comforting, but felt like a drop in a large pond. 

A few minutes later he was on his way down to the Promenade with a few strips of latinum that his Dad had tucked into his vest pocket. Spaced around the mezzanine were four or five vendors setting up their wares, but only one seemed to be open.

A wiry man sat writing on a PADD next to an orange and gold cart with racks and shelves branching off in multiple directions. It was piled with caddies of data rods, hanging musical instruments, teetering stacks of old world books, mysterious boxes, holotapes in various conditions, helix-shaped Elasian scrolls, and even a few Bajoran prayer banners that fluttered without a breeze. If there was an organization method to his stock, it didn’t come from a Class M planet.   
  
Jake heard a kindly chuckle as he tried to make sense of the hodgepodge of merchandise. The man sat his PADD down and folded his arms, which were loaded with a collection of narrow bracelets. “Looking for anything in particular or just taking a browse?” 

An uncanny sense of ease took over Jake when he made contact with the merchant’s patient blue eyes. Like suddenly he had down with a Counselor instead of conducting commerce. “Uhh..” he honestly didn’t know where to begin, but he felt like he wanted to,” Just… I need something to do. Things have been really tense around here.”

“I heard about that. Got to be rough being on alert all of the time. I’d say I’ve got a few things around here that’ll offer some distraction. What are you interested in? Light reading? Klingon Opera? Budding musician maybe?”

“Actually, I’m a writer,” Jake offered,” I just haven’t been too inspired lately. Everything just seems too raw to process into a story.”

“A writer, huh?” The merchant thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers in epiphany, “I think I’ve got just the thing. You need a distraction, sure, but you don’t strike me as the kind of kid to pop in a holofilm to unwind. You’re the creative type. And you deserve some fun.”

The situation reminded him of old Earth stories about monkey paws or carnival fortune-tellers. By that point Jake was certain the man wasn’t even human. It should have been creepy but there was just… _something_ about the easy-going merchant that felt trustworthy. Maybe he wanted to hear about Jake's problems and all of the little daily disasters around the station (and wouldn’t sell that information to the Dominion). Maybe whatever the merchant had could distract him for a day or two. He shrugged, “Sure.”   
  
In a surprising amount of time for someone whose stock was in contained chaos, the man plucked a data rod from the middle of the stack and handed it over. It looked ordinary, maybe a few scratches. Certainly not the paw of a monkey or any other primate. Jake rolled the polycarbon tube between his fingers before fishing out his PADD. “What is it?”   
  
“Oh,” he cocked his head,” It’s a lot of things. To a lot of people. But the main thing is the experience is what you make of it.  


The first pages loaded. A phasing picture of a blue-scaled dragon coiled around a glowing chest while smoke curled from its nostrils. In a pointed old-fashioned calligraphy, the title whirled forth.   
  
“Dungeons and Dragons, Seventeenth Edition: Player’s Handbook? Is this a game?”  


“Not my favorite edition, but yes. It is a game, but it’s also a wide open world for you to be creative in. Write stories, take chances, and like the best creative things, you share it with others.”

_Others_ , he sighed, you needed other people for a game. With Nog gone, he wasn’t even sure that was possible. “What if… I can’t find anyone to play with?”

“You seem like a cool kid, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for you,” he winked effortlessly (which Jake had never seen anybody but Dax do before), “You’d be surprised at all the kinds of people who like to play.”   
  
More illustrations scrolled across his screen: strange cities, splendid castles, remote wildernesses, and sinister-looking barrens. There were grotesque depictions of monsters and vivid heroes of all shapes and sizes that vanquished them. And text. There was A LOT of text. Like the program Professor O’Brien used for algebra. It was the weirdest thing, but he was compelled to look at every picture and decipher the many tables within. Like he’d been handed the scripture of some obscure religion.    
  
There was no question except, “How much?”   
  
“Tell you what. Nine strips of latinum and I’ll throw in this,” he proffered another data rod, “The Dungeon Master’s Guide. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The merchant is El-Aurian and based off of a very popular Dungeon Master...
> 
> Next chapter: Jake gets his first player...


	2. Gather Your Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake lands his first player and the story shifts to a more comedic tone. Thank god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kind words so far! My tumblr is Crowtoed and I happily take game ideas because unlike Jake, I am not a dungeon master. Chapter 3 will be released either next Tuesday or when Chapter 4 is in final draft.

Jake’s eyes burned.

They had been glued to the Player’s Handbook and Dungeon Master’s Guide since he collapsed onto his bed that night. It felt like he was taking a correspondence course, playing an addictive holo game, and joining a new religion all at the same time. Even at meals (much to his Dad’s consternation) he scrolled through the different charts and scribbled down notes. After he demolished his way through the two source books he searched the Federation archives and found a literal dragon’s horde of pre-holograph resources: recorded play, storytelling advice articles, and unofficial content which made the cosmos of his imagination explode all over again. It was daunting, but Jake absorbed it all with an excitement that made his Dad ask if he’d been drinking too many raktajinos.

  
On Captain’s orders, he walked around the Promenade for an hour or two every afternoon to prevent being “tragically eaten by the couch”. Jake decided that his Dad was right, but not funny. Besides, he faced a conundrum that threatened to put all of his research and brainstorming in vain. If he wanted to be a Dungeon Master, he needed players. 

In the turbolift he mused the idea of mounting a “one-shot” adventure when Nog came home to visit and he couldn’t decide if it was brilliant or a disaster. The Ferengi would probably think it was childish and want to play damjot instead.   
  
Anybody he considered asking would think it was silly. Was recreational roleplaying even a concept to some alien cultures?

He rounded a bend and saw the flashing lights which Quark claimed were “a feature, not a glitch” (after O’Brien refused to fix them). Maybe he could -for a nominal fee- put up a notice in Quark’s looking for players, or post on the cluttered system boards. But what if nobody was interested? What if a lot of people were interested, more than he could handle? Or worse, people he didn’t even know that he just didn’t click with like O’Brien’s crabby swing-shift crew?

It was the best he could do, he decided. If he put up a notice on the stationwide databoard or in Quark’s, at least he knew any offers were serious and not just his Dad’s friends taking pity on him. He tabbed to the Player’s Handbook introduction, grabbed a raktajino, and took up an isolated table to compose a hopefully engaging lead.

“Hey Jake, what’re you looking at, holoporn?” 

His blood turned to ice as Jadzia Dax swaggered towards him from the Replimat. To say he admired the Trill was an understatement: Dax was a legend. Decades of experience, a keen mind, a gorgeous face, and a devilish sense of humor, partnered with the restraint of a 6-year old. He had a brief moment of panic before he remembered that she asked everybody that in public places (including, infamously, a Vulcan science officer whose eartips blushed slightly green). Bashir used to go white as a sheet until he caught on.   


He reacted in the most rational, calm, way he could: he went limp over his datapad, but still flashed her a (hopefully) brilliant smile, “Oh, hey Jadzia! How’s it going?”

“Well you seem on edge. I won’t judge you if you actually are looking at-” 

“No!” he sputtered because it was too weird to hear an authority figure say ‘holoporn’ that casually. “No, it’s just a thing I’m working on. A project.”

“School project? Science project?” she needled playfully, “Holoporn project?”

Jake winced.  Circling around, Dax peeked over his shoulder in her usual way- a technique that was and wasn’t subtle at all. It was common knowledge that her need to snoop was a force nearly equal in strength to a sonic explosion. And the Second- and just as constant- Law of Jadzia Dax was: If she wanted to find out, she would. He gave up and just handed her the PADD.   
  
Her blue eyes widened with delight, “Oh! Dungeons and Dragons! I haven’t seen one of these books in years!”    
  
He was dumbstruck. Legendary Dax strikes again. “You know about this?”   
  
“Emony used to play that on Earth,” she leaned in conspiratorially,” She had a bit of a nerdy streak. I think she played a summoner… or was it a sorcerer…?”

After a second’s recollection, she decided it didn’t matter, “Are you playing?”

“No.. well... I was kind of hoping to be the Dungeon Master. I’ve got these ideas for encounters and plots and places to explore.”

“That’s great, Jake. Who are your players?”

“So far I’ve got…” What was the point? Generations of individuals had tried and failed to play it cool around Dax, Jadzia or otherwise. Jake sighed, “Nobody. I don’t know if anybody around here would even want to play. The rules are complicated and these days everyone’s got something better to do.”

“Oh,” she cocked her head towards the PADD, “I don’t know about that. If you were DM, I’d definitely play.”

It was that same exhilaration as when he had first loaded the Player’s Handbook that shimmered through him. He couldn't resist the urge to give the Trill a small hug. “Really? You would?”

“Sounds like fun. Loan me your handbook so I can roll a character and give me some time to get familiar with the rules again. Oh, and I'll need to find some dice. Ugh, I wish Emony’s kids hadn’t gotten rid of mine. I had some that looked like Denobulan opal...”   
  
“You won’t need dice, Dax. The handbook program has a computer roller we ca-.”

“You _ could _ use an auto-roller,” she interrupted. Something primordial, keen as quicksilver glinted in her eyes,” But nothing,  _ nothing _ beats rolling real dice. The weight. The sound. They make you feel like fate is really in your hands. Trust me.”

At this point he was a little scared to disagree, especially with his sole player. He raised his hands in submission, “Okay. Whatever you say. After all of my research it would be cool to see a set in person.”

“A set. Yeah.” Dax seemed suddenly distant. Jake feared a reappearance of the Pah-Wraith or Lwxana Troi’s psionic headaches and decided not to press his luck. 

With a friendly pat on the shoulder, he left her to consider.. dice? “See you later Jadzia, I’ll make sure you get a copy of the Player’s Handbook. And let me know if you think there’s anybody else who’d want to play. I definitely have some one-on-one ideas, but I really want the full party experience.”

Dax grinned impishly, “I could think of a few potentials. We’ll need a lot more dice, though!”

Right, dice. If that was Dax’s one condition to play, Jake could certainly keep an open mind. What kind of character would she make? His mind buzzed with possibilities as deleted his announcements. Once people found out Dax (and oh, would she let them know) was involved, there’d definitely be some interested parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dice gremlin has awakened.
> 
> As a note, I like to think with PADD technology the PHB now comes with character sheet creators, an auto-roller, and other helpful programs. 
> 
> Next chapter: The party grows...


	3. You Meet in a Tavern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Team Chucklefuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said once I finished the first draft of Chapter 4 that I'd publish 3, so here we go! I've been sitting on this one for a bit and it was a blast to write! I'll be at a convention this weekend with my fellow nerds, so 4 will probably be up on Tuesday.

The next evening Jake was treated to a promising message from Dax.

_Looked over the PHB and used that little character creator. Say hello to Poe!_

Enclosed was a respectable character sheet for a half-elf rogue, Poesy “Poe” Caladar. She hadn’t been kidding: Dax _was_ familiar with the game. It was a little intimidating. It was a lot exciting. Jake decided to swing by Quark’s for a celebratory root beer, to look over the rogue rulebook again, and to raise the difficulty class of every lock he’d planned so far. 

Well into sketching out an ‘escape from jail’ scenario, he heard a sluggish, metallic clattering over his shoulder.

“Rubbish,” Dr. Bashir’s voice sniffed nearby,” Absolute rubbish.”  
  
A double take was insufficient. Jake needed a few seconds to realize that, no, he had not fallen asleep in Quark’s reading the Dungeon Master’s Guide.  
  
He was wide awake in Quark’s reading the Dungeon Master’s Guide.  
  
At a nearby table the doctor and Chief O’Brien were clad in (best as he could guess) armor from medieval Earth. A pike sat propped against a pylon while two conical helmets posed a tripping hazard for anyone who walked by semi-impaired. At this point the two men showing up at Quark’s in various historical regalia was common knowledge, but it was always a treat- like observing the splendid Chromatic Borealis of Andoria- to see it firsthand. The Chief’s ruddy face looked absolutely dour as his compatriot tried (in vain) to get rid of a tragic case of chainmaille hair. 

"Tonight of all nights," the Chief groaned.

Bashir was in a fine, bitter state, "And gentlemen in England now a-bed. Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not _there_."

"You can say that again."

Must have been rough for him to break out the Shakespeare that early. After a few spasms of private laughter, Jake walked over. “Rough night on the battlefield?”  
  
“Not even,” O’Brien grumbled.  
  
Ever keen to clarify, Bashir explained, “We were supposed to be reenacting the Battle of Agincourt, but Quark gave away our suite to a group of Bajoran co-eds on their Peldor Break.”

Jake thought back to every time he'd ever seen the two out on a holo-adventure. "Don't you guys do this every week?"

"Oh yes, standing appointment every Thursday night."

O'Brien's face glowered over his already mostly-gone pint, "Which is why the greedy little bastard dropping us for a bunch of randy teenagers stings all the more."

"Probably thought he could make some easy credits upcharging drinks," Jake offered, still sympathetic.

Bashir looked like he'd swallowed a lemon and washed the distaste out with his synthale. "So much for Rule of Acquisition Number 57."

For a scene starring two grown men in metal costumes, drinking beer in a 24th century bar with a mixed reputation, things went maudlin very quickly. Jake didn't want to bring up that they could just try again next week. The Chief thumped his mailled fist against the table, “Was going to rip into that French line.”  
  
“I was up til O’ two-hundred re-memorizing Henry V,” the doctor sighed.  
  
“Bastard Philipp of Burgundy was going to get my spear up his arse.”  
  
“That’s right, he did call you a poxy beef-witted callet.” 

“Wanker,” the engineer growled, reminiscing his digital foe.

Like most conversations between the CMO and the Chief, Jake felt like an audience member (usually at a comedy). He offered a conciliatory, “Oh, well that’s too bad.”

“Prolly for the best,” O’Brien groaned,” This maille’s feeling a lot heavier’n it used to." 

He tipped back the last dregs of his drink, then sighed, "I dunno Julian. Not sure I can keep doing the big battles with you. Keiko doesn’t like me bringing edged weapons into our quarters what with the kids.”

That made Bashir slump even more than the weight of the chain. He clattered against the dingy table. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve a feeling if we try another pre-industrial war, Garak is going to murder me. Took him weeks to quilt this gambeson.”

Said gambeson certainly had a lot of quilting, picked into tidy, squishy rows… if he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked a lot nicer than the Chief’s, but that might have just been Dr. Bashir’s character. There was even some metal embroidery on the tabard over it. How the Doctor had any latinum leftover for dubious off-duty outfits and Cardassian literature was a mystery. 

“Just the thrill of battle, Miles! Bygone eras of chivalry! The uncertainty, the excitement… and at the end of the night, we pop down to the bar then go home unscathed. Well mostly, you did throw out your shoulder during the last infantry charge...”

Bashir might as well have been whinging magic words judging by the bolt of inspiration that struck him. The datastick in Jake’s grew heavy with purpose. Of course! Why didn’t he think to ask the two most notorious roleplayers on the station?  
  
“Chief, Doctor Bashir… I was thinking,” he licked his lips,” Have you guys ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM A COSTUMER, CAN YOU TELL. Ship tags are updating as they pop up in the text.
> 
> Poe's (Dax's) last name comes from baronvonchop.
> 
> Next chapter: The party gets some heavy hitters...


	4. Roll for Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake might have a couple of heavy hitters joining the party- one of them might require an extra push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will be getting longer, so a housekeeping question: Next chapter is long, so I split it at a logical point. Would you rather wait til next week to get them both at once, or chapter drops on the 18/19th and 20th/21st?
> 
> ALSO TO MAKE IT MORE FUN: A poll- What color eyes should Dax's character have?

With the ease of drinking a root beer, Jake had two more players. Luckily Bashir had heard of D&D from his days in the Academy (although “for some reason” he could never find anyone to play with) so convincing the Chief, already weary of woollen tunics and chainmaille, was a breeze. He agreed to give them both a copy of the data rod and meet up next Thursday for an introductory session. O’Brien wore a complacent smile while Bashir chattered wildly about character possibilities from kindly old wizard to renegade drow with 'costume drama appeal'. It was a breeze to furtively snap a picture of them plotting and send it to Dax.

_ Looks like Poe’s going to have some company on her adventures. _

_ This is all I’m going to hear about in ops tomorrow and I CAN’T WAIT. _

Jake was beaming. 

The next day Poe Caladar, half-elf rogue was joined by Dwarven fighter Finnbar Brightflayer, courtesy of the Chief. Evidently Doctor Bashir was still agonizing over choosing a class and resorted to asking Morn for an unbiased opinion.

Alas, Jake could only dream of getting Morn. He probably did the best character voices.

It was afternoon and he was on his way to talk to Keiko about ideas for interesting species to use as tree-ents when he was followed by the insistent clack of hard heels. He turned around and saw Kira hurrying towards him in a rust-colored blur. That was fairly common in of itself. With a pace like that he’d assumed she was on her way to ops, but she called out, “Hey, Jake. Hold on for a second?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

She veered around him and settled where she blocked his progress down the corridor, hands bracing behind her back. “Jake, can we talk?”

In his very limited life experience, that was never a good phrase. “ _Sure?_ ”

It must have dawned on her that the conversation could have started smoother. The expression on his face like a startled Risian marmoset was probably a good clue.

”Oh no, not like that. Sorry! It’s nothing bad about you, I promise. In fact just the other day Odo was telling me about how he hasn’t had to file an incident report about you in months…” 

Without anything better to contribute because- well,  _ that _ stung- he just nodded.

Major Kira looked as sheepish as a spitfire renegade could manage. “Let’s start over. Dax was telling me about this game you two were playing- the Dungeons and Dragons? She was going a mile a minute about it. I wanted to know what got her so excited.”

“Oh!” Jake straightened unconsciously once it was clear he wasn’t in danger,” It’s an old Earth game. Kind of complex, though. You pretend to be a character..”   
  
“Like in the holosuite?”   
  
“ _Kind of_ like that. You make up the character, but they’re not a hologram, they’re in everyone’s heads. Everyone else has a character too, who you interact with. When your character runs into a challenge in the story, you use numbers from dice to see if you’ve succeeded or failed.”

“Like in dabo?”   
  
This was becoming an interesting mental image definitely not covered in the Player’s Handbook. “Yes. Right, like in dabo. You and other peoples’ characters go on adventures together. Sometimes you hunt for treasure or fight monsters. Sometimes the stories will go on over multiple sessions and you’ll do something like...” He barely missed a beat with one of his brighter ideas, “Save a kingdom.”

The Bajoran’s dark eyes went starry for a moment.

"And it's the dungeon master's job- that's me- to narrate the story and give out new challenges and keep track of all of the rules."

“And you’re playing this with Dax? That sounds.. Well, amazing!”  Kira smiled at him quietly, which forced the conversation to trail off with the grace of a Tellarite ballet. After inviting Bashir and O’Brien it finally occurred to him to ask her- and now he felt a little guilty, having approached a large chunk of the senior staff before her. Like she wasn’t invited to a big party. “Did…” he tried to make it sound organic, “.. you want to play too?”

“Oh it sounds really complicated.” She batted dismissive hand at the thought, "You don't want me slowing down your game."

Jake sighed; she was appeasing. After the first few weeks of partnering with Starfleet the Major had gained a  _ mostly _ unfair reputation as domineering and irascible, which she (to her merit) reined in. Only now she _over_ corrected, even in private conversations that didn’t sway the fate of the station. It wasn’t in her nature to be passive aggressive and he could tell she hated it, but she was compelled to button up if anything could be construed as inviting herself. She couldn’t be thought of as ‘that rude Bajoran hellion’ now that she was in such an elevated, delicate post. 

So if anyone deserved to relax and slay a few goblins, it was Kira. And with Dax playing she was bound to have some fun if their off-duty giggling in the halls was any indication. They were a packaged deal, really. They’d certainly give Bashir and O’Brien a few things to squirm about.

“You’ll be great. I’ll walk you through the sourcebook myself,” he offered, “No pressure.”

"I don't have a character!" she grimaced, "I'm terrible at being creative- you saw my sculptures from when I tried to pursue my d'jarra."  
  
Jake copied a shrug he'd seen his Dad use during one of these negotiations, "Dax and I will help you make one. And this isn't sculpting, Kira- it's using your imagination."

The Major grumbled ruefully, "I think I lost that in the war."

"Kira," he cleared his throat, "I want you to play. Dax will too. We'll have fun."

Any reticence, real or put on, evaporated. “As long as you think I won’t wreck your game.”

“Nah. You strike me as way more of an adventurer than Doctor Bashir and the Chief- they’re playing and it’s their first time, too.” 

Kira let out a bark of laughter, “Well, all right! Sign me up." 

He smirked, "And besides, maybe we'll help you find your imagination."

Like a lake shimmering on a dark night, her eyes flooded with fondness. She placed a hand briefly on his shoulder, "Thanks Jake, you’re a really sweet kid, you know?”

While he didn’t harbor those sorts of feelings towards the Major, Jake went a little warm in the face. It was really nothing, he wanted to say, that naming all of the tavern workers was more stressful. But he took the compliment with a coy duck of the head all the same, “I’ll get you a copy of the Player’s Handbook. But don’t get intimidated by it, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Hey, I’m actually really excited,” her open-mouth grin was effusive, “One quick question though- what’s a dragon?”

So that was four. To risk sounding cocky, Jake was worried that by week’s end he’d be beating off prospective players with his PADD. Maybe he’d have to lie and say that the game was for senior staff only- like it was some kind of elite Federation training exercise.

His meeting with Professor O’Brien ended sooner than expected. As Keiko was describing an encounter with a particularly bloodthirsty species of prehensile fern from Romulus, a message from Dax splashed itself across his notes. 

_ Promenade ASAP, by the Celestial Cafe. You’ve gotta see this. _

Well the ‘you’ve gotta see this’ put him at ease that this wasn’t an emergency, at least. He begged her pardon humbly as he could and promised to return for the thrilling conclusion before careening full tilt down the corridor. So much for two months without Odo barking at him.

Upon arrival at the Celestial Cafe she was nowhere in sight. Jake whirled around looking for the nariest glimpse of ponytail or spot and definitely succeeded in looking like a total idiot. If it was a prank, then it wasn’t a very good one, particularly by Dax standards. Then he heard a hiss from behind him, “psst!”

The Lieutenant was crouched between a pylon and a waste receptacle. The walkway was wide open in front of her while she was shielded from immediate view. In the spirit of the Dungeon Master’s Guide, Jake looked for a trip wire.

“C’mon!” she hissed and waved to a spot next to her.

He was excruciatingly slow to come over, for the sake of the Romulan fern he never learned the name of and out of spite for all the running. “Soooo, what are we doing?”

“I’ve almost worn down Worf enough to play. Been asking him all day.” She was still whispering for some reason, there were maybe three people around who were all more engaged in dressing salads or examining jumja sticks.

“That’s okay Dax, if Worf doesn’t want to play I won’t force him.”

“Yeah but _I_ will. C’mon Jake, think of how great it would be.” Jake wasn’t exactly sure which definition of great Dax was using. Maybe it was a translator error. Several months into his tenure on Deep Space 9 and he was still terrified of the Klingon officer. There was something unnerving about a man that uptight who possessed hands that could squash his skull like a tulaberry. “And he needs to have fun one of these days.”

Then something caught his eye, multiple somethings clacking around in Dax’s palm the colors of a supernova. They were pyramid-shaped and inscribed with tiny numbers...

Why was he even surprised?   
  
“How did you even get those in less than two days? We’re lightyears away from the nearest Terran game shop!”

Dax flashed a wicked smile,” Well, turns out Chula dice are more or less the same as a D4. I had a friend in engineering tweak the replicator pattern for me and input a variation sequence so I can change the colors. I’m working on finding more facsimiles.” She dropped two magenta polyhedrons into his open palm.

He clacked them together in spite of himself. “They are really satisfying….”

“I told you,” she winked, then looked over at a chronometer on the wall, “Oh! It’s almost time, get down! Worf’s getting off his shift, he’ll be here any minute.”

“Why are we even doing this? I don’t want to force anybody to join anything.”

“Jake,” Dax took back her dice with a leveling look, “Do you know how to get a Klingon to do something?”

He shrugged. At this point he was just along for the ride. Everyone was when Dax was driving.

“Confrontation.” Her smile was all teeth as she patiently awaited her quarry, then flicked out her hand.

Five purple D4s tumbled into the middle of the Promenade, where they sat for only a brief moment before being trod on by a massive Klingon foot. Even through the standard-issue work boots Jake knew it smarted just enough to be a nuisance. Worf didn’t need to look behind the pylon to know who his tormentor was.

“JADZIA!” he roared everywhere in particular. 

Motion in a thirty meter radius froze with the primordial noise of an angry Klingon. He picked up the offending piece of plastic and snarled,” This is the third time I have stepped on one of your tetrahedrons!”

“Maybe they like you,” she grinned, emerging from the pylon. She all but took a bow. Utterly unphased, like she was dealing with a cranky toddler. Jake on the other hand remained behind the pylon because he still had a human self-preservation instinct. Any other bystanders- upon seeing that Dax was present- hurried past the scene and also made themselves scarce. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Worf sputtered, “Is this some kind of challenge?”

“It is,” she drew herself to full height,” I challenge you to play in Jake’s Dungeons and Dragons game with me. And Jake... And O’Brien and Julian.”

Jake piped up in the name of comedic timing, “And Major Kira!”

Dax’s mouth made a delighted ‘Ohh’, like she’d been presented with a kitten. “Awww, Nerys is playing? That’ll be nice.”

Worf sighed, ”I told you Jadzia, I am not interested in spending my leisure time sitting down and playing pretend.”

“But there are so many battles in D&D, Worf, you’ll love it!”    
  
“Battles of numbers,” the man sneered,” If I require a battle, I will seek it in the holosuite training programs and be all the readier for the real thing.”   
  
“Well, that’s true,” agreed Dax in the tone everyone knew as the resolve-killer. “But a worthy warrior must train his mind for battle as much as his body. Think of it Worf, combat exercises where everything is up to chance- your quick thinking and the resources of your character the difference between victory and defeat. Sure, you can win a battle as yourself- we’ve all seen you do it- but can you do it as someone else? And with every variable randomized? Against enemies you’ve never even heard of? Sounds to me like whoever wins a fight in Dungeons and Dragons would be  _ very _ prepared for a physical one.”

The lack of a grumbled reply or a punch to the face meant that she had him pinned. 

While Worf ruminated, Dax gave Jake a merry wink: a full party it was. It didn’t make the pressure any easier now that he was apparently responsible for training a Klingon officer in hypothetical tactics, but the image of Worf hunched over a character sheet and making acrobatics checks were too good. Besides, maybe he’d have fun. Or maybe he would storm out of the room first session because ‘true warriors did not order imaginary drinks from imaginary little men’. Truly it was a challenge for the ages: write tabletop encounters so engaging that a Klingon warrior wouldn’t flip said tabletop in frustration.   
  
As expected, he relented. A brief nod of assent, “Very well.”

“Jake, c’mon out and meet your new player,” she folded her arms triumphantly.

“Hi Worf,” despite his growth spurt he was still looking up to make eye contact, “ Um… Welcome? I’ll get you a copy of the Player’s Handbook, the warrior’s manual, pretty much.”

Worf huffed at the very notion of learning to be a warrior from a book, “I will look over your manual with Dax’s assistance. If this ‘Dungeons and Dragons’ can truly exercise a mind for battle, then it would be foolish to dismiss it without attempt.”

If Jake were a few years younger, he would have pumped his fist in victory right there. Instead, he had the sense to hand over a data rod to Jadzia and retreat from view before celebrating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here begins the tricklings of Kiradax, may it grow into a torrent of attractive kissing alien ladies.
> 
> Next time: The party gathers to refine their characters, Julian speaks his fanon-required Arabic, and THEY BEGIN THE CAMPAIGN.


	5. Pen and Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the first session! There are nerves, there are notes, and there are questionable names....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY SOLSTICE, FOLKS.
> 
> So the next chapter is massive. So massive in fact that I split it up into two halves that'll both drop on Monday (Like together they are longer than all previous chapters combined). It's taken me a bit to write and I'm still pounding out my draft because depicting a balance of OOC and play, straight acted fantasy and comedic shenanigans is actually really difficult for me. Thanks for your patience!

Ever the proud Dad, Ben Sisko momentarily escaped ops to see Jake off on the evening of the first session. He’d tried to explain that this was a casual get together of chance and make-believe, that they might not even do any actual playing, but the hug toll had to be paid.

“Remember,” the elder Sisko wagged his finger, “If any of them give you any problems, you let me know.”

Jake thought it sounded like he was babysitting a group of long-lost siblings instead of entertaining his Dad’s senior officers. “It’s fine, they’re doing me the favor by playing.”

“You’ll change your mind about that. I hope they appreciate all the hard work you’ve put into this and at least...” he trailed off for a moment, looking for the most diplomatic word, “Behave.”

Jake gave him a crooked grin, “I’ll just kill their characters if they don’t.”

“That’s my boy!” His Dad gave him a dark chuckle and a quick kiss to his forehead, “I don’t pretend to know what ‘D&D’ is all about, but tell me how it goes… maybe the layman’s version.”

“You’ve got it.” Jake waved the bag full of snacks that he’d packed earlier. He had his PADDs, his notes, and -god willing- he would get his heart rate under control by the time he reached the wardroom.

Over the course of the week they’d all sent in a character sheets (albeit in varying stages of completion) and Jake even had a few private message conversations about backstory with Bashir, O’Brien, and Dax. The CMO had settled on a sun elf bard with an Arab retooling of traditional fantasy elf lore. Predictable -considering how proud Bashir was of his roots- but Jake was intrigued by the subtle changes and the gleaming elven (El-faniyin, in this case) city state that sat, unplottable, around an oasis in the desert. He just hoped Bashir wouldn’t get frustrated if he didn’t pronounce the trickier consonants right.

The Chief’s sturdy dwarven fighter Finnbar was fleshed out to include a previous career as a soldier. At first he had taken the background for the proficiency and travel perks, but Jake asked him to explore whether he was a deserter, discharged, or simply retired. In line with the constant march of setbacks the Chief dealt with in real life, he wove a rough tale of a middle-age guardsman who fell asleep during watch duty, failed to warn his city about a Basilisk attack, and then was exiled for his embarrassing mistake once the dire toll had been taken. Finnbar left the underground dwarven kingdom, he'd say for 'better opportunities' as a sellsword and amateur brewer on the surface.

Poe, Dax’s already beloved rogue, had gained a criminal background as a small-time thief who dreamed of pulling off a big heist. That contrasted nicely with Kira’s nascent outline for a halfling paladin crusading to save her homeland from a tyrannical army of lizardfolk.

The lizardfolk had been his idea. At first he’d tried to encourage the Major towards a more foreign concept like a half-orc monk or a tabaxi warlock, but she would always lock up if they progressed very far and drag her feet until the character was discarded. She just wasn’t comfortable, and that was fine. Dax went over Kira’s numbers at dinner the night before and reported in triumph that everything looked squared away and that she’d convinced her to give the halfling long hair (this had been an ordeal, apparently).

Finally there was Worf, who also reaped the benefit of Jadzia’s experience. So far he’d decided that he wanted to play a barbarian, because roguish combat was “dishonorable” and the magic system seemed too confusing. He was also very, very certain that he wanted to play a minotaur. Jake recalled the afternoon that they flipped through the Player’s Handbook together: the Klingon’s eyes had hurtled to an illustration of a horned figure and he’d gasped, with utter reverence, ”I wish to be one of these glorious people.”

Not an official playable race, but Jake would take on a little extra research for that kind of enthusiasm.

It was a start.

He had no idea how this mixed company of characters would work (especially without a dedicated spellcaster), but he would find out when they all met in the tavern. The characters, that is. The group had managed to snag the wardroom -barring any emergencies- for the evening and Jake was once again grateful that his Dad was commanding officer. Everyone had been told to bring a snack, their PADDs, and their imaginations. He should have been clearer about the dress code, though, because Bashir showed up in a gauzy orange poet shirt.

Those with finished sheets were asked to write down any private character notes while he helped Kira and Worf finish theirs. A few times he felt just as lost as they were, gazing at the many numbers, plusses, and minuses.

“I’m sorry,” groaned Kira, setting her PADD down,” But this is all a little too on the nose, don’t you think? Worf’s playing a giant barbarian, Julian’s a skinny elf, and Jadzia is playing…. Jadzia.”

A fond, catlike smile rippled across Dax’s face. “Oh I don’t know. I think if it were really too on the nose I’d be playing a cleric,” the doctor countered,” And Miles would be the halfling.”

The Chief looked up from the Player’s Handbook, none too amused. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying your wife married a Hobbit, Chief. Were you able, you’d be in a comfortable hole right now eating additional breakfasts. Oh! Speaking of, forgot to take an additional language.” Bashir scratched a note onto his personal sheet, “Hmm.. Draconic, methinks”

“You’re one to talk, Nerys,” Dax leaned over to steal a glance at Kira’s sheet, who clasped her PADD to her chest with the horror of someone who’d been peeped at in the shower. “Your character is pretty much a shorter you, minus the ridges and short hair.”

“Well- you were right- sometimes I miss my long hair,” griped the Major, running a hand through the scruff on the back of her head. “Also, I gave her freckles!”

“Freckles?” scoffed O’Brien

“Bajorans don’t get them. I’m pretty sure it’s something just you humans have. They’re so weird, though, I love them!”

The Chief obviously hadn’t considered this before, coming from a country that produced about as many spotted people as the Trill homeworld.

“Okay, so you gave her freckles,” Jadzia teased, taking advantage as one of the few individuals in existence able to get away with it, “But her name?”

“What’s wrong with Syren of Rojab!”

Dax shook her head, “That’s your first name backwards.”

O’Brien snorted into his drink.

“I got stuck figuring out what to name her! It’s not like I’ve played a halfling paladin before.”

“It’s great, Kira. This is your first character,” soothed Jake. He loathed to think that he was cajoling his players like children, but he had to acknowledge that this was new ground for a lot of them. “Remember to pick a god from the list in the book though, I really can’t let your paladin follow the Prophets.”

“I do not know what to call my character,” Worf announced, “What name is suitable for a minotaur warrior?”

“Sorry Worf, I couldn’t find a lot of information on minotaurs as a playable race. But that just means your possibilities are wide open.”

“For instance,” Jadzia began, grabbing a handful of spicy sand peas from the communal bowl,” My character’s Poe Caladar, from Dounrah Siv, capital of the Yglevin Empire.”

“I did not see any of those places on the provided maps.”

“That’s because I just made them up,” she grinned, “There’s no wrong answers.”

“This is allowed?” he growled incredulously, then looked to Jake for confirmation.

“Sure. And I’ve taken Dax’s ideas and wrote them into the campaign. Now there’s an Yglevin Empire. Doctor Bashir’s contributed, too.” The look in the warrior’s eyes was somewhere between optimistic wonder and distressed confusion.

“You could always name him something Klingon,” the Chief suggested.

“Or a name from Greek Mythology, that’s where minotaurs originated on Earth,” Bashir added, leaning his chair dangerously backwards, “Something like Theseus or Nestor, perhaps.”

Worf was offended on the race’s behalf, “Minotaurs are not Klingon. Or Greek. That defeats the purpose of playing a role from a place which does not exist.”

“They’re just suggestions. Like Jadzia said, there’s no wrong answers. If you wanted to you could name your character…” Jake said the first thing that popped into his head, “Bob of Cowtown.”

Worf was the only one in the room who didn’t collapse in a fit of giggles. He sat, nodding, as if Jake had professed a solemn revelation. “Bob of Cowtown…”

Oh no. “I wasn’t being serious…”

“It lacks pretension. I have decided that Minotaurs value concision in their language.”

Jake dutifully wrote that down. Who was he to fence in Worf’s newfound creativity? If he wanted his character to be…

“Bob of Cowtown, I like it.”

..then so be it.

The Klingon pointedly ignored Bashir and O’Brien gasping for air and making sounds like dying targs across the table.

“All right! Looks like everybody’s ready,” Jake took up his PADD and returned to his cobbled-together base camp at the head of the table.

It was time. He took a deep breath, then another. He’d been preparing for this and in the case of disaster he would embrace the grand Starfleet tradition of making something up. “Let’s start our first scene!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Bob of Cowtown and pieces of dialogue between Dax and Worf were brilliantly conceptualized by baronvonchop, a friend and internet gremlin. Thank you sir, thank you.  
> -I'm learning Arabic and I've got a massive fondness for classical Islamic history and culture, so Bashir's elf retooling is as much for me as character. El-Fannanin (الفنانين) translates into 'the artists' or people who work with great technical skill, something the elves would describe themselves as. 'Elven' was corrupted into Common from that.


	6. Venture Forth, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their character sheets complete, Jake sets the party off on their first session. They introduce their characters, participate in a little night life, and Jake does a little DC fudging to avoid a sex scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! As promised, here's session one- split into two parts for more manageable reading.
> 
> I'm really interested to see if the format works for people, because gdi this became more than crack and the wordcount exploded with that realization.
> 
> Any actual mechanics mistakes are my own and I apologize- just assume that that's a quirk of 17th edition.

They all met in a tavern, as so many of these stories began. 

The village of Duskwood was bordered by the Withered Woods on one side and kilometers of fertile farmland on the other. The harvest had been gathered and stored away for the coming winter, which meant the mood that had been so cheerful in late summer and autumn was becoming heavier as people considered the coming darkness. As was the case with farming towns, even along a major Imperial Highway like Duskwood, social life was focused at the local inn- the Blue Wyvern.  
  
 _“Jake?”_

_“Yes Kira?”_

_“What’s a Wyvern?”_

_“It’s… uhhh,” he momentarily blanked when he worried about all of the Terran fantastical monsters she’d probably never heard of, “Remember when I told you about dragons? It’s like a dragon that flies and it’s got a poison stinger in its tail.”_

_“Doesn’t sound like a very nice thing to name a tavern,” she wrinkled her nose._

_Jake was in the mood to be challenged, luckily, “Okay, fine. It’s the Copper Acorn Inn.”_

_“See Nerys, that sounds classy,” Dax quipped._

_“Great. Chief, where are you in the tavern? It’s about the size of the replimat inside- chairs and tables on the right, bar lined with stools on the left. And could you describe your character for the others?”_

Looking like he belonged there, a ginger-haired dwarf in worn chainmaille sat at the bar, already having downed a few pints of Human ale, which might as well have been spring water to a Dwarven man of his experience. His ruddy face was framed by a pair of long, shaggy sideburns, matched in frizz by his silver-streaked hair. There appeared to be the remnants of a painted crest on his armor, but long since scratched out. With another drink gone, he let out a mighty belch which echoed through the room.

_“Heh, damn right.”_

_“Okay, Kira, where are you in the tavern?”_

Perhaps as far from the bar as possible while still being in the same building sat a heavily-armored halfling with auburn hair braided and pinned around the crown of her head. Unamused probably summed up her expression the most politely. As her order abstained from alcohol, she drank tea, and did so with a rigid back and eyes on the lookout for trouble. Under the table she ran an ungloved hand over a shining holy symbol- the same embroidered onto her blue tabard.

_“Which is probably a good time to ask what you’re doing Dax.”_

The dwarf’s belch seemed to act as a summons. One who answered the call was a curvaceous half-elf with purple hair cut choppily at the chin who walked with sure swagger. She wore dark clothes and armor, a rust-colored beret at a jaunty angle, and a playful grin. Twin daggers were strapped to her leather legging-clad thighs.

_“Oooh purple hair, Dax?” said Kira around a mouthful of moba jam-stuffed cookie._

_“Pretty, right? Definitely not a standard Trill color.”_

_“Only you would make careful mention of your girl wearing leather tights, Dax,” O’Brien shook his head fondly. Judging by his dopey smile, Bashir seemed to be having a little too much fun in the back row of his Theatre of the Mind with the image._

The half-elf introduced herself, “Name’s Poe Caladar. Wanna arm wrestle?”

_“You bet his dimpled arse he does,” the Chief chortled. Everyone (including Worf) gave Dax approving smiles._

_“Nicely done,” Jake said, swiping to the rules about contests,” We’ll come back to the arm-wrestling. Let’s get the rest of you in place. Worf, where is…” He bit back a giggle, “Bob?”_

The villagers welcomed the distraction of the belch and the arm wrestling so they could avoid staring at the shaggy-furred minotaur squished into a chair by himself. He was massive: his long black horns nearly scraped the rafters when he stood. A halfling’s dinner could be served out of the crude metal pauldron lashed to his left shoulder, and his broad-hewn battleaxe was capable of felling a tree in one swipe. All of the servers were too nervous to approach and take his order.

_It might have been Jake seeing things, but Worf seemed a bit crestfallen, “It was not my intention to intimidate the locals.”_

_“They’ve never seen a minotaur before,” he explained, hopefully not unkindly._

_Where was a delete button when you needed it? Worf probably already had enough to deal with as sole Klingon on a Federation-backed space station without him dumping the same sentiments on his character. For all he knew, maybe Duskwood had a proud immigrant minotaur population: hard-working cow-people. Pillars of the community._

_He recovered by adding, “If you look at your character sheet, though, you do have a plus one to intimidate. These are really simple farmers who are easily scared.”_

_“I suppose a minotaur warrior is a daunting sight.”_

_“It is, and some of them looked impressed more than scared.”_

_When the tiniest of satisfied smiles crept onto Worf’s face, Jake felt a little more at ease._

_“Is it my turn?” Bashir was in danger of vibrating out of his chair._

_“Take it away, Doctor Bashir.”_

Sitting at a table, a tawny-skinned elf in simple, elegant clothes attempted to flirt with a tavern server. His odd features certainly distinguished him the locals: Duskwood wasn’t home to elves and certainly not ones with kohl-rimmed golden eyes and curling platinum hair which swept over a shaved side of his skull like an icy wave. On the table was a pile of unfinished poems written on scraps of paper and a well-tuned oud. Like many of his kind there was an experienced haughtiness in his expression, but not unfriendliness.

_“Describe your hair more, Julian, I know you’ve got a few paragraphs in you.”_

_“Get stuffed, Miles,” the Doctor retorted eloquently._

_“Always have to be the pretty boy, don’t you Julian?”_

_“Nerys, don’t be rude. Julian has to be the_ prettiest _boy,” Dax gibed._

_The man’s ears turned scarlet. Jake decided to save him before he totally changed phases of matter and melted into his chair, “Let’s go back to this arm-wrestling. We’ll do our first contest. Chief, do you agree?”_

The dwarf laughed heartily at the half-elf’s gall: throaty and with something wet rattling around. “Absolutely, missy. Name’s Finnbar Brightflayer and you’re going to regret challenging the likes of me!”

_There was an awkward pause before Dax replied because, like everyone else at the table, she was enthralled. The Chief had obviously channeled his years of experience reading bedtime stories and did something to his voice. Made it a little gruffer, leaned into the r’s a bit harder- nothing too wild, but enough for an effect. Jake wondered if Molly heard him practice or gave final approval._

“Nice to meet you, it’ll be nicer to beat you,” Poe winked one of her lavender eyes and pounded her elbow onto the counter.

_Everyone’s glasses (and piles of dice) shook. Her audacity was punctuated with a scandalized “Oooooh!” from Kira. Which reminded him..._

_“I forgot to mention,” declared Jake, “If you’re character’s doing something while this is going on, just say so- like making a bet or shaking their head or something.”_

_“I already said that I was flirting with the barmaid,” the Doctor reminded to a chorus of rolling eyes. So much for hoping he’d forget._

_“Roll a D20 for charisma, since that’s what you’d be using for flirting.” For the sake of the new players he was trying to be as obvious as possible._

_Too obvious, because Dax snorted, “Here I was thinking it was animal handling.”_

_“No,” quipped Bashir dryly, “That’s only if I flirt with Bob. And that’s an 11, Jake.”_

_“Did you add your modifier?” Silence. “The little number under your ability.”_

_“Oh! 13, then!” He seemed pretty pleased with his chances._

_“What do you say to her?”_

The sun elf gave a winsome smile to the tavern server as she put down his drink. His hand moved to hers, “I beg your pardon, but I haven’t seen a face as bright and lovely as yours in an age. Join me, if it pleases you. I’m starved for some pleasant conversation.”

_Bashir had meshed his typical accent with an obviously familiar Arabic one of emphatic consonants and trilled r’s. His voice had also become breathier and halted, as if having slight difficulty with Common or just trying to seduce everyone in the room. Jake wanted to reward his roleplaying efforts with a positive interaction, but he’d gone ahead and raised the difficulty of NPC flirting encounters because he knew the doctor wouldn’t be able to help himself. The reputation of bards was notorious- and so was Bashir’s. Also it was just too awkward for a first session..._

The halfling girl gave him a polite smile and moved her hand away, “Thanks. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask my Uncle up at the bar. He’s quite the conversationalist if that’s what you’re looking for.”

_The doctor’s mouth was a thin, displeased line._

_“Ohh! Tough luck, Julian,” chuckled the Chief._

_“You strike out in the fantasy world, too, huh?” Kira joined in on the ribbing._

_He dragged a hand through his hair, stunned, “What was even the difficulty on that?”_

_Jake shrugged innocently, “She’s a tavern server, she’s used to guys trying to hit on her. And she’s working!” Dax and Kira nodded in solemn approval._

_“Well… I could have used inspiration.” Truly he was shaken to his core._

_“Bards can only inspire others. Just... better luck next time, Doctor Bashir.”_

_“I liked your accent, though,” consoled Dax, already grabbing the D20 for her impending strength challenge._

_For his capacity to sulk, Bashir recovered quickly. “Oh, thank you! That’s actually how my Nan talked. She was born in Egypt near Asw-.”_

_“All right,” Jake clapped to corral any chatter, “Let’s do this contest. Chief, Dax- both of you are going to roll a d20, and don’t forget to add in your strength modifier. You’ll go best two out of three rounds, got it? “_

_The two combatants nodded. Dax had her dice in hand while O’Brien preferred the auto-roller on his PADD. She cursed a 9, then he let out a relieved breath when the computer called out a 15, plus an additional 3 points of dwarven beefiness._

Elbows resting on top of the bar, the dwarf and the half-elf joined hands. Immediately her arm started to waver against the force of the old soldier’s. Poe’s arm bulged from strain while her lilac eyes did the same in regret.  
  
“Already tuckered out, Poe?” Finnbar guffawed, barely straining a bicep.

The rogue gritted her teeth, “It’s not over yet, alebreath!”

_For once it wasn’t Kira pounding her fists on the table._

_“Agh! 5? You’re kidding me!” Dax groaned, “Wait! Can I cheat? Blow into his eyes or something?”_

_Jake tsked, “You’ve got to think of that before you roll, Dax.”_

_“16,” O’Brien’s auto-roller intoned and he smacked the table in triumph._

_“Okay, you’re cut off,” muttered the Trill to a fuschia D20. A quick rumble through her bag (which bore the name of the fancy Rigellian shop she bought the stilettos formerly stored within) and there was a new teal polygon waiting to be tested._

With very little fanfare and possibly a minor sprain, Poe’s arm went sailing into the table. 

Finbarr hobbled onto his barstool and threw up his hands in triumph. There was a smattering of applause, a few chuckles, and a “sit down, already!” from the barkeep. Across the room, the minotaur gave him the polite nod of someone who could have won the same challenge with the effort of swatting a fly. The halfling had also watched the contest, but rolled her eyes. 

Nearby the elf was composing a broody poem and missed the whole thing.

While Poe was shaking out her arm, Finbarr gave her a hearty slap on the back, “Don’t take it too hard, lass, I’ve had a hammer in this hand since afore I could walk. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sure,” smirked the rogue, “If you drink as good as you arm wrestle, though, remind me not to challenge you to a drinking contest.” There was a reason Poe was never able to pickpocket from passed out dwarves- there never were any.

_“Jake, does he look like he has anything valuable on him?”_

_“Oh I see how it is!”_

_“Make an investigation check and find out!”_

_“It’s nothing personal, Miles. Thank Spock… 14, plus 4!” she whooped, then kissed her D20._

And she wouldn’t be trying to get this one sloppy either. Other than the massive war maul leaning against the bar next to him, he didn’t have anything noteworthy in value. Old armor and basic adventurer supplies could fetch something at a market but it wasn’t worth the effort of a hammer to the face. Unless she outright killed the man. 

_“Jake,” Worf politely prodded, “I feel that my character is not doing anything.”_

_They had only been playing for a few minutes, so that checked out. “So go ahead and have him do something. What’s he doing in an inn? Is he eating? Drinking? Wanting to get some rest? Does he see anyone interesting that he wants to talk to?”_

_“I wish to fight something,” the Klingon added helpfully._

_Dax cheered with a mouthful of lentil puffs, “Oooh! I’ll fight you, Worf!”_

_“No!” Clamored the rest of them in unison._

_After getting Dax to back down from her challenge (whether it was in or out of character, no one could say), Bashir tried- and failed- to flirt with another barmaid with a lacklustre 7 (she was happily married). O’Brien and Dax had their characters enjoy their round together while Worf summoned the courage to actually order a drink for Bob (the bar did not have prune juice, so he settled for cider). Kira hadn’t moved or spoken up unless prodded, and even then it was basic flavor text. She might as well have been window dressing._

_Jake had loosely planned the beginning of their encounter but no one had gone for any of the plot or combat triggers yet. They hadn’t really done_ anything _yet… He felt like the conductor of an orchestra wearing blindfolds: only two of them were interacting, two were aloof in the current environment (and played by novice roleplayers), and one really wanted to have a casual sexual encounter he wasn’t inclined to give. It might be in everyone’s interest if he just sped things along…_

_“What’s everyone’s passive perception?,” he asked over the insidious din of cross-table chatter._

The sound of shoes stomping on wooden steps clamored in the distance. The elf, the minotaur, and the dwarf all perked up and looked over to a door that led to the inn’s kitchen. To those who could hear it, the refrains of an argument floated into the main room.

“I’m not going down there again! Not with all those things!” said a voice, out of breath.

“We need those barrels Aubrey. There are still folk here from the harvest, it’s going to be a busy couple of nights…” admonished another.

“I don’t care! They’re horrible little things! They’ll gang up on me and slit my throat! I’m not going down there again, I almost died last time. Out of my way, Maynard.”

The door opened and a hagridden human barged through it, winding their way through the busy inn to parts unknown. A paunchy, middle-aged halfling man followed behind him, looking equally put-out. He helped himself to a gulp of something from a dark brown bottle before clamoring onto a barstool.

_“Oh! I’ll give him a hand up,” O’Brien blurted out quickly, as if a golden opportunity had just presented itself._

“Thanks but no, stranger,” he muttered to the proffered hand, somewhat annoyed. He scrambled to his feet, smoothed his waistcoat back over his belly, then cleared his throat.

“Attention!” he barked and clapped his hands a few times. Gradually the patrons’ babble died down enough for him to be heard, “All right you lot. We’ve got a mess of goblins in the basement- pesky little bastards. Anyone who goes down there and helps deal with them gets a free round, kill the lot and you get a bed for the night-”

_“Jake,” Kira began, “What’s a-”_

_“You’ll find out if you go in the basement, I promise.” If they would all just go to the basement, then the party could literally get started. God- he sounded like something out of an old horror holofilm._

“Anyone interested can join me at that door yonder. Back to your business, then.”

_Jake gazed out at the table with a look that hopefully broadcasted blatant coercion. “Do any of you go?”_

A few minutes later the halfling man was joined by a mismatched ensemble of exterminators. Newfound friends Poe and Finnbar decided that killing a not-yet disclosed number of pests sounded like a grand way to unwind. The minotaur was thirsting for a fight, the elf was sick of getting the cold shoulder from the tavern girls, and the halfling was honor bound to assist the common folk in whatever plight was available.

Their would-be employer looked them over with doubt, “Wouldn’t have pegged you lot as goblin catchers, but who am I to judge? I’m Maynard Goodfurrow, I own this inn. And you are?”

The halfling woman all but barreled over anyone in the way to shake his hand, “Ser Syren of Rojab, paladin of… of…”

_“Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon!” Jake offered hastily._

“Bahamut, the Platinum Dragon!” she declared, looking a little surprised after she’d said it.

Not one to allow dead air, the half-elf whisked around her and extended a hand, “Poe Caladar...Farmhand for hire.”

_“Roll for deception, Dax.”_

_“16… 21 altogether. Our friend Maynard here might as well believe my name is Peaches and I’m his long-lost niece.”_

The paladin may have raised a brow, but Mr. Goodfurrow didn’t seem phased. There were still a lot of laborers in town from bringing in the harvest, though normally they didn’t look so... _cosmopolitan_ (or wear as much tight-fitting leather). 

He offered his hand to the dwarf next to her, who was tipping back the last bitter dregs of his ale. He wiped his mouth, then used the same hand to shake the halfling’s. “Name’s Finnbar Brightflayer, landlord. And this is Bessie.”

The dwarf jerked his frazzled ginger head at the war maul and gazed at it with the same fondness as a lover. 

However, before the warrior could start kissing the crude slab of steel, the elf upstaged him with a bow, “I am Ilyas Tahalmarin of Zarzoura, a traveling poet, sir.”

“Right,” Maynard gave him a curt nod, clearly not in the mood for high elven nonsense. “You’ll take care of the goblins with poetry. Sure it’ll put ‘em right to sleep.”

_Bashir deflated, “I don’t mean to start a tiff… but I don’t much care for Mr. Goodfurrow.”_

_“I don’t know,” Dax smirked, “He reminds me a bit of the Chief.”_

_O’Brien opened his mouth to protest, but the Doctor swiftly came to his aid- sort of. “Miles is charming when he’s grumpy, though. Different kind of halfling altogether.”_

There was only one unintroduced and Maynard had to crane his neck to study his bovine face, “Ohoho! Big brute, aren’t you? And who might you be, oxman?” 

The minotaur slowly lowered into a crouch, horns almost knocking his new comrades over on their way down. Even kneeling, Maynard couldn’t look him in the eye. A metal ring ring threaded through his nostrils jumped when he snorted, “Do not call me an oxman, halfling. I am Bob of Cowtown.”

_Maybe by next session they could get it out of their system, but several of them snorted- ranging from painful-sounding to badly concealed. Or maybe they could convince poor Worf to pick a different name._

Maynard shifted his shoulders and tugged on the lapels of his coat, “Right. You’ll use your own equipment. Take care of the goblins, find out how they’re getting in, and I’ll see to it the house takes care of you tonight. Cellar’s through that trapdoor.”

“This job dangerous?” Finnbar asked, fiddling with an armor strap.

“Mr. Brightflayer- was it? They’re goblins, not red dragons. Just a pack of vermin.”

Syren’s nostrils flared. She looked as though she would cause a minor explosion if she didn’t chime in, “Your friend said they could gang up on people!”

_“Kira, you didn’t pass that perception check. You didn’t hear that.”_

_“Oh no. Sorry!” The Major’s face fell so quickly that Jake almost apologized in return._

“Your friend seemed afraid for his life,” observed the elf, as if eerily prompted, “That they used mob tactics.”

_“Thank you Julian.”_

_“No_ , thank you _.”_

Maynard balked at the accusation, “And aren’t you lot a mob? This is ridi- listen. Take care of the goblins and we’ll talk about your reward then, hmm? Go on. Off you trot.”

_“I agree with the Doctor,” Worf seethed, “I do not care for this man.”_

_Dax cocked her head in consideration, “I could steal his stuff when we’re done, would that make you feel better?”_

_“Petty theft will not make up for his dishonesty and rudeness… but yes.”_

_As long as they didn’t go around killing his NPCs indiscriminately (because that would really be a red flag to relay to his Dad), Jake was fine with some extracurricular pickpocketing. There would be consequences, of course, but what was prison and wrath of gods to a party out on their first adventure? His finger came to a star in his notes that triggered a wicked smirk,” Now for a fun part, guys. How many of you have dark or dim light vision?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I want to commission art of everyone's characters so bad... Thanks everyone who voted on Poe's eye color, I really dig the lavender.  
> -I am weak against ladies in practical armor. Syren is wearing practical armor.  
> -Ruushes' art of Critical Role NPC Yussah Errenis is a pretty good idea of the aesthetic I went for with Ilyas, just a l'il bit more himbo twink with a stronger nose and longer hair.  
> -MILES IS GOOD AT ROLEPLAYING, IT IS CANON.
> 
> Onwards to part two, where our heroes see some action, Dax makes somebody blush, and I reference my thesaurus again.
> 
> Please leave kudos if you would call Poe Peaches, comment if you believe her to be your long-lost niece (I will never do one of these again, I promise)


	7. Venture Forth: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here there be gerblins. Also ladies flirting and badly quoted Islamic poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I still got you? Rad. I hope the fight is readable and I didn't mess up the mechanics too badly.
> 
> Chapter content warning for fantasy violence, blood, and PTSD flashbacks.
> 
> Next chapter will go up the 26th/27th or when I finish the first draft of the chapter afterwards! Thanks everyone!

_Worf and Kira were the odd adventurers and completely blind in the cellar. Neither of them had thought to light a lantern or torch- but Jake wasn’t going to give them the hint, yet. Sensing his chance at social redemption at last, Bashir stood up._

_“Allow me, Major,” he bowed, then wiggled his fingers towards Kira, “I cast dancing lights!”_

Like flowers opening to the sun, four spheres of light bloomed in the void and unveiled a portion of the vast cellar. Two migrated away from the rest: one came to a hover above the paladin’s shoulder while the other installed itself between Bob’s horns like a headlamp. Ilyas gave them a lofty smile, “I thought I might offer some assistance.”

 _“Oooh! I want spells! Can I do that?” Kira looked at him in open-mouthed wonder._ _  
_   
“You don’t have any cantrips right now, but you’ve got some cool things of your own,” Jake replied, thinking of ‘Lay on Hands’ in particular. None of them were spellcasters, so a Bard’s mixed utilities right now were probably downright exotic.

In another world- perhaps with shorter hair- the paladin would be delighted. But standing in a dingy old cellar with total strangers, Syren only gave brisk thanks. The minotaur grunted cordially.

_“So… where are they? The goblins?” the Chief asked._

_“You’re going to have to look, Chief. Anybody want to make an investigation check?”_

_All five of them rolled with varying degrees of success, except for O’Brien (who was working with a one point intelligence handicap). Maybe drinking all that ale did a number on Finnbar, or maybe a blow to the head, or both._

Ilyas and Poe found the first signs of pests littered around the cellar: scratches into wood, damaged barrels and crates that had been pilfered, and rank droppings.

“Disgusting,” the elf wrinkled his nose at the smell, “Well something has been making itself at home here.”

A few minutes later Syren managed to spot some tracks. It surprised her to see how tiny they were, with little indentations from claws. The wavering light made it difficult to tell how old they were- at best less than an hour, at most half a day- and there wasn’t a distinct trail. It was as if the creatures sprung from the ground like carrots. 

Then Finnbar got a bright idea, “Mayhap they’re tunneling in? And the entrance is just hidden?”

“Under the crates?” Poe suggested. There were a few still whole enough to cover a burrow or chink in the wall. 

_“I’m going to try to push one of the crates aside,” declared Dax, pointing to a sand pea Jake had placed on the table to mark the four possibilities._

_“Sure, gimme a strength roll.”_

_“Are. You. Kidding. Me.” she spat at her dice, “That’s a one, Jake.”_

The half-elf tried to shove away the loaded crate, but ended up slipping on goblin droppings.

_“That is unfortunate,” Worf… oh god Worf was biting back a chuckle! There was a chorus of playful ‘ewws’ from Bashir and Kira. The Lieutenant took her humiliation in stride._

Poe scraped off the sole of her boot on the stone walls. “Hey,” she panted, “Big guy, you want to help me with this?”

The minotaur peered at her, as if to say ‘who, me?’, then slowly hunkered over.

_“That is a 13. And the small number next to my Strength is a +3. Is it sufficient?”_

As if full of feathers and cotton fluff, the crate shifted with ease. There was no hidden tunnel underneath.

Poe glared, “Fine, you get the rest.”

Bob gave her a laconic shrug. 

_“I want to try one, too, Jake,” the Bajoran declared chipperly, “Ooh! 17, plus 2!”_

Across the room Syren all but picked up another crate with her well-trained paladin muscles. This time Poe looked blind-sided. If a woman who only came up to her navel managed _that_ so handily... She whistled, “Swinging that sword around sure does you a lot of good.”

“Oh!” the halfling looked at the weapon sheathed at her side, blushing, “Thanks… uh.. It’s an iron broadsword. I like it…”

“I like broads with swords,” Poe said _in sotto voce_ , appraising the cellar floor. Only Ilyas, with his superb elven hearing picked up on it and his only commentary was a knowing smirk.

_Everyone at the table heard however, and Kira’s cheeks were almost as red as her hair. She was smiling though, so the embarrassment couldn’t have been too painful. Dax just looked very pleased with herself. Once more, Jake swooped in for the rescue, “What’s everybody’s passive perception?”_

_It was miserable, that's what. The goblins didn’t even roll that well, but their stealth bonuses were wicked against such a novice party. Only Bashir managed to pass the check and notice the one, clumsy goblin who rolled a 12 and by the mere skin of his proficiency._

_“Dr. Bashir, you hear some scratching noises coming from the unmoved crate furthest away from you. And some shrill giggling…” Jake tried to mimic the sound but ended up sounding like Quark with the hiccups. Regardless, he had been excited to finally say, “Roll for initiative everyone, you’ve been set upon by goblins.”_

Ilyas peered into the dark after his ears picked up some faint skittering, brittle sounds just across the room. Like a rodent of some kind…. Suddenly, three little creatures popped out of the shadows which clung to the corners of the room. Pointed teeth gnashed in their mouths. Their oversized ears stuck out on either side of yellowish orange-skinned heads. Each of them wielded a shortbow and a jagged scimitar, clearly cobbled from scrap. 

_“They sound like Ferengi!” declared Kira._

_Jake flipped through the Player’s Handbook to the illustration of the species. The picture didn’t look very much like a Ferengi, but the description was spot on, down to the lust for treasure. “Well, I mean yeah they have big ears and sharp teeth, but they aren’t…”_

_Dax’s mouth gaped, expression somewhere between laughter and shock, “Oh no, they_ are _Ferengi! We have to kill Ferengi with shivs!”_

_“And these things are considered vermin?” Bashir looked a little appalled, “Well that seems careless on the publisher’s part. And racist…”_

_“Goblins have been part of D &D for forever, they’re a standard first encounter monster,” or at least that’s what the description said. Wait, why was he defending this? Didn’t he have a Ferengi best friend? Wouldn’t he be appalled if Nog had to listen to this? “Okay.. okay, you’re right, that is really uncomfortable…” _

Suddenly, three little creatures popped out of the shadows which clung to the corners of the room. Pointed teeth gnashed in their mouths. Their oversized ears stuck up above their speckled green heads, like the unholy offspring of a rabbit and a frog.

_“Well it's less racist but now’m gonna have nightmares,” winced the Chief. Bashir looked over at him and rolled his eyes._

Two tiny arrows streaked through the cellar: one narrowly missing Bob, while the other embedded itself deep into Poe’s leg. She let out a howl of pain and doubled over, just shy of tumbling to her knees. Ilyas was the closest to her and the only one who heard the onslaught coming.

“Poe, courage!” he admonished. Taking out his scroll, he began to weave golden strains of inspiration from his lips, “Defiantly live, or in honor die, amidst slashing blades and bann- _arrows_ \- flying high.”

_“Sorry, that’s all I’ve got,” Bashir said sheepishly, “Read a lot more Islamic poetry about love than war. Rumi wasn’t exactly keen on crushing skulls.”_

_Jake hoped his smile was reassuring. He didn’t mind a bit of culture, and it could have been much worse: he could have sung as his bardic archetype. As anyone who hung around Quark’s long enough knew, the Doctor couldn’t carry a tune in Odo’s goo bucket._

_“Dax, you’ve got an extra d6 to add to any roll,” he pointed to the appropriate polygon, the one he was actually familiar with before all of this._

The goblins weren’t impressed by the lofty couplet and another arrow zipped towards Dax. It missed, but she wasn’t about to stay put for the next one.

_“So I’m done being surprised, right? I can attack?”_

_“Go at it, it’s your turn.”_

_“Oh I will…”_

Biting down the pain in her leg, Poe darted towards the nearest goblin with the focus of an eagle swooping onto an unsuspecting trout. Both of her daggers slashed downward; both found purchase- and with their combined canniness, the creature fell. 

_“One down!” Jake wasn’t sure if it was Poe or Dax who said it, but the sentiment was universal. The energy around the table was frenetic- excitement from felling the first goblin, the frustration of a wasted first round, the anguish of being out of soda, but far too invested in the game to go grab more from the replicator less than ten feet away._

Letting out a brittle scream of rage, one of the goblins aimed another volley- this time at Finnbar. The insidious little point sank into the soft spot between his arm and chest, where his armor wasn’t as thick. While the dwarf reeled from the wound his attacker vanished into the shadows, adding insult to injury.

_“For the love of…” the Chief roared at his character sheet, “I’m half dead!”_

_“Ah, but are you half dead, Chief, or_ half alive _?” Bashir’s smile made Jake understand why certain officers described him (when he wasn’t in the room) as ‘a little shit’._

_“Feck off, Julian.”_

While they were distracted by Finnbar’s delightful cursing in both Common and Dwarvish, one of the goblins streaked across the cellar to swipe at Bob’s leg with it nasty-looking sword. The combination of dull metal and meaty shin only resulted in an annoyed minotaur and very endangered goblin. However, before Bob could stomp on it, the creature swerved between his legs.

_“These creatures do not fight honorably,” Worf seethed, “They will know devastation today.”_

The paladin recovered from their surprise onslaught quickly. She hoisted up her shield and forged a path towards the goblin pestering Bob. Her broadsword made a glittering arc… and missed its target entirely…

_Kira clenched her fists and said something untranslatable in Bajoran, probably something that children were told ‘made the Prophets cry’. She growled at Jake, desperate, “Just let me hit the little twerp! Can I hit it with my shield?”_

_“You still have a bonus action and… “ Jake scrolled for a moment that seemed much longer and more awkward than it probably was, but any silence around the table was painful. Was he glad he checked, though, because in this edition, “Shield bashes count as an improvised weapon. So yeah, try it!”_

Like a greased pig, the goblin dodged Syren’s oncoming shield. The momentum almost caused her to topple over. “Stop… moving!” she yelled.

Frustration manifested itself on the elf’s face as a very inelegant furrow between his brows. As if deciding that scrambling after a goblin was beneath him, he aimed his crossbow towards his martial friends’ current problem. The creature let out a percussive yelp and clutched its shoulder, still alive.

“ _Abu Reiha_ ,” Ilyas sneered, then noticed the arrow planted in Finnbar’s armpit. Though their foes weren’t yet dead, he lowered his weapon and once more let the golden words twine from his tongue, “My friend, the wound is the place where light enters you. Seek light and rise like the dawn...”

 _“And there’s four points health for_ you _!” beamed Julian, giving his friend a jolly poke on the stomach. With a productive round like that he had to be chipper._

_O’Brien grumbled as he keyed in the recovery on his PADD, “I thought you weren’t playing a healer! Too ‘on the nose’.”_

_“Fine, bleed out then.”_

_“Bards do a little of everything,” Jake explained, just glad that somebody was there with utility. And quoting Rumi. Like he said, a little of everything. “Worf, you’re up.”_

_The Klingon looked like he was going to combust from inactivity, “It has taken an inordinate amount of time to get to my move.”_

_“Yeah, you didn’t roll very good initiative.”_

_“I can assure you that Bob of Cowtown would have very high initiative for combat. He thirsts for it.”_

_“I’ll let Wizards of the Coast know,” maybe hanging out with the senior officers was rubbing off on him, “But for now it’s your turn.”_

_Worf looked down at his character sheet and saw something very agreeable, indeed, “How do I use my Rage ability?”_

_Jake shrugged, “It’s a Bonus Action. You just say you’re Raging.”_

“I AM RAGING!” bellowed Bob of Cowtown, holding his notched greataxe aloft.

When he brought it down on the goblin that molested his shins, it was rendered to paste.

_“Well that was anti-climactic,” Dax cackled, “Do we roll for splatter?”_

A bit of the creature’s gore sprayed onto Syren and even sullied Ilyas’ hem. After a few quick sputters to make sure she didn’t have any in her mouth, the paladin exclaimed, “Well, just one left…”

_“The little blighter’s run and hide. How do we find it? Has it escaped?”_

_Jake gave the engineer a patented Sisko toothy smile, “Oh it’s still in there…”_

Grumbling darkly enough to make a god’s ears blush, Finnbar approached one of the two remaining intact crates. He decided to quench Bessie’s well-known appetite for destruction and hurled the maul downward. Chunks of wood and the provisions contained within went flying. Alas, no goblin. Maynard would just have to deal with the property damage. “Come out, come out you wee bastard…”

Poe was watching the shadows, looking for any sign of movement or flash of mirrored eyes in the dark. She thought she heard a skittering behind her, but it ended up being nothing.

Like a sudden clap of thunder on a sunny day, the goblin broke the peace with a twang from its shortbow. This time the target was considered with more care and Ilyas was hit in the thigh. The floating orbs snuffed out as the elf let out a fierce cry of pain, plunging the cellar back into darkness.

_Bashir went pale, clutching the roots of his hair as he scrolled through his options, “This is bad Oh God. Ya Allah- I’m down to only one hit point.”_

_“And it’s my turn and I can’t see,” Kira exclaimed, “Can I feel around in my pack for a lantern?”_

_Jake put his palms out flat in a genuine gesture of appeasement, “Sorry Kira, but if you do, it’ll take your whole turn and you’d make the roll at disadvantage.”_

In the darkness there was a clatter of metal as Syren fumbled to light her lantern. It was a struggle to perform the maneuver of lamp, tinder, flint, and steel in blinding darkness, knowing a foe waited within to pick them off. Her hands were shaking, would she be shot next? When the flint clattered on the ground, she uttered a gasp and thought of her god.

As if her prayer had been answered, Ilyas gasped a spell and the brilliant orbs of floating light bloomed again. They lit his face, contorted and unpleasant in pain. He looked at the halfling and managed to choke out in golden bursts, “Ser Syren, Without hardship everyone would prevail. Glory in hardship, sloth in comfort lies.”

_Kira smiled at Bashir before checking off the gift of inspiration, “That was really nice.”_

_He shrugged, fond and strangely calm, “Believe me it sounds nicer in the original Arabic and he doesn’t believe a word of that, but you’re welcome.”_

The goblin hadn’t made a sound or reared its scraggly head. There was only one place it could hide now that the lights had turned back on.

“Enough of this game,” the minotaur growled and stalked over to the last crate. A swing of his axe and it was rendered kindling. The goblin was nowhere in sight, but there was a hole carved into the floor that trailed down into the bedrock.

_“How far down does it go?” Kira asked_

_“You don’t know.”_

_“I’ll send one of my lights in,” nodded Bashir._

_Jake shook his head, trying to seem impartial, “You can on your turn, you’re still in initiative order.”_

_“I’m a dwarf,” announced O’Brien, “I’ve got good eyes for earth and the dark. Let me take a look.”_

_“Let’s say by doing that you use your action to search… Roll investigation Chief.”_

The burrow went down a good ten or twenty meters, then curved. Either the goblin was hiding in that bend or it had fled. For some unnatural reason which they blamed on their heightened anxiety, the hunters knew their quarry hadn’t gone far. What they needed was to guarantee that their friend wouldn’t return.

_Worf glared at the table like it would capitulate and tell him the right answer, “We need to eliminate their point of entry.”_

_“I wish we could just plug up the hole,” said Dax ruefully, “But they’ll probably just tunnel back through anything we put in it.”_

_“We all have basic camping supplies in our kits, maybe we could light up some kindling and smoke him out,” the Chief suggested, scrolling through his equipment tab. There were a few uncommitted nods of agreement._

_In his glee to see his players strategizing, Jake almost missed the suddenly dour look on Kira’s face. It wasn’t just someone frustrated or waiting for their turn, either. She looked genuinely upset. “Kira? Are you okay?”_

_All chatter ceased. Even O’Brien fished his hand from the snack bowl out of respect. The major tried to shrug it off, “It’s… it’s nothing just. The situation reminds me of my time in the Resistance. It’s actually really awful but I was thinking about how I’m going to try something the Cardassians used to do to me…”_

_Concerned eyes silently urged her to continue. Dax put a hand on her shoulder and Kira let out a long, cleansing breath, “They uh.. They used to throw gas canisters into the caves we hid in. Tried to smoke us out. I mean we started cobbling together gas masks together but those first few times… It’s.. dumb, I know. Getting upset about imaginary basement animals.”_

_He felt way in over his depth. Honestly he’d hoped that the combat wouldn’t even lead back to the tunnel, but the goblins kept managing to disengage. Jake tapped the stylus against his PADD. An apology or halt to the session felt like an insult to her. There had to be a way to resolve this… the encounter. Kira’s memories of the occupation were more than one dungeon master could handle, but maybe he could turn the session around._

_“You’ve got options besides that,” Jake spoke up after a minute, thinking of a piece of advice from the source book “This is a game all about finding other options. Dax, it’s Poe’s turn. What do you want to do?”_

_The Trill gave her friend’s shoulder a squeeze and kept one hand on the Major’s while she scrolled through her equipment. Then a spark. It started with a widening of her blue eyes, then a smirk as she read the description again, then a full-blown, tooth-bearing smile that was impossible not to mirror back. Or be a little scared of._

_“Oh! Oh dungeon master,” she lilted playfully, “Could I use the string in my backpack and my Thieves’ Tools to fashion us a snare?”_

_If only he could answer right away. After a quick flip to a far-flung page, and some furious skimming, Jake grinned back, “Why yes you can. Make a survival check.”_

_Like a grandmaster putting a king into check, Dax poised her D20, “Since this is kind of important, I’m going to use that inspiration Julian gave me.”_

Poe knelt next to the goblin tunnel and spread out her roll of tools. Using waxed string, a bit of scrap wire, and pliers, she rigged a rudimentary, but working snare. “Ta-da… now what do we bait it with?”

The dwarf scratched a frizzy sideburn, “What kinds of things do goblins like? Apart from the usual.”

As they puzzled, Syren stepped back to where Ilyas was gritting his teeth. He’d decided to keep the arrow in, but that didn’t make him any less vulnerable. If the goblin attacked again he had no chance. She reached and touched his arm, not comfortable to go below the belt, “In the name of Bahamut, I thank you for your help.”

The paladin’s hand glowed, effused with holy energy: blood clotted, tissue knit back together. Ilyas nodded appreciatively as the pain receded somewhat. 

_“Four health points, Julian?” Kira asked as if offering a cup of Tarkalean tea._

_He had perked up considerably, “Don’t mind if I do, Ser Knight! And Jake, I’d like to hold my turn. I’m going to prepare a minor illusion for when we get the trap into place. Ilyas just needs to know what to use as bait.”_

_Aside from having no idea how that worked, Jake agreed. If it was what it sounded like, then he applauded Bashir’s sense of strategy. Otherwise he was too embarrassed to go flipping through the handbook again. “And you, Worf? Are you going to hold your turn?”_

_To everyone’s surprise (except maybe Dax, who had a Cheshire grin), Worf shook his head, “No. I want to see if Bob knows what would best bait and lure the goblin. He has spent time in the wilderness and possesses some knowledge.”_

_Pleased, Jake invited Worf to roll a Survival check._

Bob of Cowtown was a man of few words. Grunts were more his style, with the odd growl and bellow thrown in. But he wracked his brain, searched his memories, and it came back ringing clear as a bell and for once, he had a lot to say, “Goblins are creatures of greed and gluttony. They eat, they mate, they drink, they steal. Give them something worth stealing.”

The rest of the group stared at one another in mild disbelief. There was a certain fable about the intellect of minotaurs, but they weren’t about to tell the first one any of them had ever met about it. To his face. And his battleaxe. Besides, it was sound logic. 

“Understood,” Ilyas nodded. Now that he wasn’t on the threshold of death, shifting over and crouching on the cellar floor wasn’t as brutal an affair. He ushered his lights away from the hole so the goblin wouldn’t see their faces peering down. “Master Brightflayer, if you see our friend take the bait, tell Mistress Caladar to retrieve her snare. Otherwise it will see through our trick.”

Both of them nodded and slid into position. The bard wove a splendid mirage of gold and silver, studded with a few pieces of platinum piled into a wooden box- as if someone had carelessly set down their life savings. The circumstances didn’t need to make sense as long as the goblin took the bait. 

A few of them picked up on similar scratchings and skitterings as earlier. It was a cautious approach, but they heard it nevertheless. The tiny footsteps, the snuffling of a curious nose, the gnashing squeak of a language none of them knew grew closer and closer. Poe bit her lips in anticipation for Finnbar’s signal

“Go!” came a hiss in the dark and she pulled the strings with a violent jerk. The lines went taut and jumped in protest. Finnbar guffawed triumphantly, “You’ve got him, Poesy! Reel him in!”

They tugged up the jostling goblin together, with Ilyas minding its progress. When it was almost about to crest the floor, he waved the paladin over, “It is restrained by the leg. Care to do the honors, Ser?”

“Happily,” she wrinkled her nose and unsheathed her weapon. Glinting in the light of the orbs, she drew back her sword in preparation… then sliced. In one mighty stroke she sundered the creature’s head from its body. 

_When the auto-roller had chimed out 18 for Kira’s attack roll, there had been gasps. When it announced that the blow landed 5 damage, plus 2 from Syren’s practiced aptitude- just enough to slay the goblin- everyone screamed. Hands clamored to Kira’s shoulders, Bashir gave O’Brien a stinging hi-five, and Worf bolted up from his chair to spike the now-empty chip bowl to the ground. The shattering noise was completely covered up by jubilant shouts and whoops. And nobody looked happier or prouder than Kira._

_Except maybe Jake._

“Utterly disgusting,” scowled Ilyas as he performed prestidigitation on his silk caftan. The arrow was still in his thigh. Syren and Finnbar had settled for cleaning their weapons off on a fallen foe’s furry vest, while Bob seemed content to wear goblin gore as a fashion statement.

Poe appeared at the top of the stairs with her arm around Maynard’s shoulders. The halfling looked a bit queasy as she related the whole bloody tale- probably with a few interesting embellishments to help their bottom line- and was all-too happy to show him the carnage as proof of a job well done. 

As he surveyed the damage his cheeks went red and his eyes bugged out. Then he exploded with an exponentially-sized fury, “You IDIOTS. You killed the goblins, but you DESTROYED my cellar! It’s going to take days to clean up this mess! Have you any idea how much money those goods cost?!”

After a deep breath the five annoyed exterminators filed out of the cellar. Needless to say payment or even thanks weren’t happening. As recompense they didn’t bother to tell Maynard about the hole or urgency in covering it up- even Syren could call that a hapless mistake. 

As they walked into the still-crowded pub, all eyes shot to them, conversation ceased, and somewhere a baby cried. Most of them were covered in grime and goblin gore, three were wounded, with broken arrow shafts sticking out. Finnbar glared at them, “Nothing to look at here, you lot! Go back to your pints.”

Gradually, as they filed through the inn, the eyes tapered off and the conversation bubbled back up. The paladin told them about a hostel to Bahamut at the edge of town where they could bind their wounds and have a charmingly ascetic night’s sleep on a straw mat. Still, it was better than nothing and Ilyas said that he would be damned if he tended his open wound on the dirty ground. As a further consolation, Poe waved around a gold watch that had to have been snatched from Maynard’s pockets. 

Before they could all exit, though, a small hand tapped Bob’s burly forearm.

“I beg pardon,” spoke up another halfling- older, with a bushy gray mustache and a very fine waistcoat, “Are you the folk who killed all of the goblins in Maynard’s cellar?”

Not all at once, they looked down at their various blood and viscera stains (or protruding projectiles) then stared dumbfoundedly at the little man. Ser Syren took mercy and offered a businesslike smile, “Yes, sir, we are.”

He looked pleased, albeit unnerved, “I’m Abernathy Hayfoot and I’m the mayor of this town. There’s been some awful happenings and we need assistance.”

They continued to stare. Finnbar crossed his arms to look intimidating, nudged the bolt in his armpit, and let out an anguished groan.

“Several folk have gone missing lately,” he appealed, “And they were last sighted near the ruins deep in the Withered Woods. We’re just farming folk, sers, our search parties are too scared to wander that far in… Legend says that it’s haunted.”

With the exception of the paladin, the party looked ready to tell Mr. Abernathy to shove his foot where his hay was and clear off. Noticing their consternation, he sputtered, “Four hundred gold and whatever supplies you need! I promise! Tonight I invite you into my own home to take your ease, please!”

Syren was on board from the start, ready to aid the helpless. Bob perked up with the promise of supplies while Finnbar and Poe became much more sympathetic at the mention of gold. Ilyas, either the hardest or easiest to please, was swayed with the thought of a soft bed not infested with fleas.

“Mr. Hayfoot,” the paladin shot out her leather gloved hand, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter was difficult to write because of balancing the tone. If anyone has any concrit regarding the pacing, level of detail, or structure of the RPG vs OOC encounters, please share. I actually rolled and played out this encounter, which is why Julian came in so clutch against creatures who could hide and disengage so easily.
> 
> Also Oh no, I put feelings in. This was supposed to be crack.
> 
> The couplets Bashir quotes are by Al-Mutanabbi and Rumi. 'Abu Reiha' translates to "father of bad smells".
> 
> Next chapter: Jake's good at insight checks, Worf has something to share, and just what's going on between Bashir and Garak?


	8. Insight Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the first session Jake checks in with some of his players (and some check in with him!).
> 
> Jake ships it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for remembering trauma (but nobody suffers from any panic attacks this chapter).

The night before had felt like a dream at first, with spurts of linger and rush. Mr. Hayfoot’s offer was accepted and the scene went figuratively black to mixed sighs of anxiety and satisfaction. Chief O’Brien thanked him for a ‘triffic’ time and excused himself to go make sure the kids were tucked in. They all offered him rounds of thanks and accolades and smiles and cheeky questions, but his heart felt like it was going through warp core meltdown. All the mistakes. All the awkward moments. But he was happy? It was the strangest adrenaline high of his young life.

They all left the wardroom for their various destinations, personable as ever and chattering from excitement. A rush of heat kept him glowing up the lifts and around the corridors of the Habitat Ring, but once Jake reached his front door everything had faded back to normal. The spell had expired. Before he could sink down in malaise though, he reminded himself that it was going to happen again next week- if the others wanted.

Did they have a good time? Was Worf too bored? Would Kira even come back after such a triggering scenario? Was he too hard on Bashir? Is this what people who dated multiple partners felt like? Then again, most of them probably didn’t arrange 5 metaphorical first dates at the same time, except maybe Morn. 

He didn’t know if he could sleep. His butt was numb from the few hours of sitting, his eyes were burning from acute PADD overuse, and all he wanted to do was plant his nose in the sourcebooks and get ready for next week. Why not ride the last few bits of excitement and get a head start?

He woke up the next morning with the monster manual open and an almost empty sheet of notes stuck to his forehead.

That evening he made it a priority to find Kira. Taking his Dad’s advice to not occupy her much-needed meal breaks, he waited for her at the Bajoran shrine. It earned him a few looks, knees almost up to his shoulders in an attempt to squish himself onto one of the small benches outside of the sanctuary. Kira had to be one of the most- no, not religious- spiritual people he knew. Dogma didn’t concern her so much as faith, but maybe that’s what most Bajoran laypeople were like. He’d seen her celebrate even the minorest festivals, fed and doused the funeral fires during the observed transitional periods, and apparently few nights a week attended evening prayer circles or meditated in one of its amber-lit nooks. No wonder being a paladin suited her: to harness tangible power, directly shot down a link from the divine had to be tempting, comforting.

Not that he was one to talk- he followed the same rational yet open-minded agnosticism as his Dad (at least before his visit with the wormhole aliens. These days, things were looking a bit more like Dungeons & Dragons).

He caught a crest of auburn hair out of the corner of his eye. Kira was trooping her way out of the temple and certainly didn’t seem troubled. Maybe this was a bad idea. For all he knew she had just finished a relaxing prayer session, and he was going to ruin it by bringing up traumatic war memories.

“Kira?” he called to her retreating back, “Hey Kira?”

“Oh! Hey Jake!” she turned around, all honest smiles. When she smiled or laughed like she meant it, little dimples appeared under her eyes. It was like a Major Kira insight check. “Can I just say again, thanks for letting me play last night? I haven’t done anything like that before but... gotta say, it was fun!”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” he felt like biting down on his words. Concern was nice, but not the things it brought with it. “You had a few minutes last night that didn’t look so fun... And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Ohhhh,” she gave an understanding nod, “I see.”

Jake pursed his lips, looking down at her guiltily.

The Bajoran jerked her head down the Promenade, “C’mon, I’m in the mood for a cup of tea. Get one with me.”

Once they were sat, two steaming mugs of jumja tea between them on the table, Kira put a reassuring hand on his, “Jake, last night at the game- that wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” he nodded, and believed it, “But I’m the dungeon master. I’m supposed to make sure everybody has fun-”

“And I did!” she interrupted, delighted, “I fought some monsters! And I had a sword! And then I probably saved Julian…”

“But I should have taken into account all of your… war memories. I just feel…” Like an insensitive jerk, he wanted to say. Seeing that expression on her face had been frightening. It was another one of those unsettling reminders that he was growing up and that everyone- even the bravest people like Kira- could be burdened with fear or doubt.

For a moment, she was quiet, content to organize her thoughts and enjoy the floral-fruit-sappiness of the tea. The wet gleam in her eyes had returned. When she sat her mug down again she had bolstered up to continue, albeit softly, dolefully, “I saw- experienced a lot of things during the Occupation. And I was about your age. Sometimes I look at you or Ziyal and… I think about what I should have been doing. And don’t feel guilty Jake. Don’t ever feel guilty for me. Or sad.”

“You went through so much, though. You lost so many people. I don’t want to remind you about that.”

Shaking her head, she gave a rueful chuckle, “I hate to break it to you Jake, but I’m reminded of it every day. From all sorts of people who aren’t you and it isn’t their fault either. That’s surviving. You live with it, you work with it. I’ve been praying and meditating and.. finding ways to cope for years to get where I am now with it. And you and your Dad know that I still get depressed. Get angry...”

Oh he knew, he had seen when the pain boiled over. How it clouded the capability and compassion she had in her. But despite that, how did she- how did a person just keep going like that, after a war? After blow upon blow... It had been years, but he was still trying to figure that out for himself.

“The pain just sort of… hangs around, like a ghost,” she cradled the hot mug in her hands, “It’s always in the back of your mind or a little bit out of the corner of your eye. And you tell yourself your house is haunted. And you get used to it hanging around. But sometimes it’ll pop out and… it’ll scare you half to death.” She paused to keep her traitorous voice from hitching.

Now he definitely regretted this. He shook his head and started composing a worthy apology, anything really-

“Don’t start,” she ordered before the first ‘I’m sorry’ could rush out of him, “I won’t hear it from you. You didn’t do anything wrong and I want to keep playing with you guys. And you know why you shouldn’t worry when you tell your stories?” She patted his hand for syllabic emphasis.

In addition to being struck dumb with her honesty, Jake knew better than to open his mouth. He gave a wondering cock of the head so she knew he was listening.

A little half smile crept onto her face, “Think about it Jake. Where is the best place for me to remember or have an attack? Surrounded by friends, who I love and who I know love me. I told myself last night that we’re safe, we’re doing this for fun. And the best part is, unlike back then…”

She leaned in slightly, as if revealing a secret, and gave him the most brilliant, tenacious grin, “I know I can win.”

A few days later he met Worf in the Replimat for lunch, summoned by a message that he ‘had something for him that needed to be given in person’. Despite having participated in one of the strangest bonding experiences in the galaxy with him, Jake was still a little nervous because- oh god- this could be considered hanging out with Worf. Things got more surreal from there.

From the stuffy greeting, to waiting in line in silence, to sitting down with their twin trays of goulash, Worf seemed… distracted? Over alert? Deflecting?

And then it hit Jake like a phaser beam: Worf was  _ nervous _ . The man was avoiding eye contact! He kept looking around, trying to appear natural, to see if anyone was watching. It didn’t take a Tal Shi’ar to pick up on it and that was a little distressing. 

“Sooo,” Jake twisted his fork around in the tomatoey oil slick of a stew, “You had something for me?”

“Yes,” agreed Worf, taking up his tall glass of prune juice.

Well this was agonizing. Jake had a few bites before prompting again, “Were you going to give it to me?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Well, he’d used up his turn. Sure, he could ask Worf to give it to him, which would trap him into saying ‘yes’ because Klingons didn’t back down (even when giving things?), but Jake wasn’t prepared. He didn’t know what ‘it’ or ‘something’ was. It could be a slip of latinum to pitch in for group snacks, or it could be a violent punch the face that would lock him into some ancient ritual combat. No telling with Worf, really. 

The stalemate went on for about ten agonizing minutes. Jake tried to enjoy his lunch, tried to ask Worf friendly questions (but only got monosyllabic answers or just… noises), and looked around the Replimat for any welcome distractions, but Worf kept stalling. The man knew how to build an atmosphere of tension. He’d have to take notes if he ever wrote a thriller.

Mr. Garak and Dr. Bashir were having one of their cultural tete-a-tetes a few tables over. They were far enough away that he couldn’t discern a word they were saying (just the occasional note of a groan or murmur of consternation), but close enough that he knew they were engrossed. 

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Jake jerked his head towards them conspiratorially.

Worf looked over, but snapped his gaze back, as if he only had eyes for replicated goulash that didn’t know if it was Hungarian or American,” I do not know, nor do I wish to.”

“Gotta be interesting,” he shrugged, referring to their lit eyes and wild gesticulations.

The Lieutenant Commander gave an annoyed huff, “Klingons believe in courage above all things. It takes courage to be curious, but even curiosity can be stupidity.”

That sounded a little too pragmatic to be a teaching of Kahless. It certainly hadn't been his attitude when he first arrived on the station. The first dozen or so failed attempts to arrest Garak for espionage (not to mention about twenty for Quark) his first week must have tempered him.

The nearby scene seemed pretty typical: soup, Garak wearing colors he wouldn’t have thought to put together, PADDs, wild gesticulating, tea. But if Jake didn’t know that they were talking about…Tyrellian sonnets, for all he could guess- he’d assume they were on a date. And it wasn’t the bickering. Personally, he didn’t put much stock in arguments as a barometer for romantic intensity, despite what he’d heard about Cardassians. 

With these two it was their hands. Their faces. It was uncanny how close they would get: faces mere centimeters from one another- comfortable yet fascinated. Bashir’s cartoonish facial expressions may have toned down since his first days on the station, but Garak was able to tease them out. When Bashir wasn’t looking Garak gave him fond smiles that pushed out the rounds of his cheeks. Definitely not a look for a cold-blooded (figuratively) spy. 

Then, when the tables were turned, Bashir’s heavily lidded and lashed eyes swept up and down the Cardassian’s face and neck. Occasionally the twains would meet and there’d be... a beam, a pulse of some potential energy, then shoved down before used.

It was the weirdest thing. Jake considered himself pretty comfortable with intimacy when it wasn’t straight. He grew up in Starfleet. His favorite teacher aboard the Saratoga was a Benzite woman with a human wife that went everywhere together, hand in webbed hand. One situation that came to mind was hanging out in Quark’s one busy evening while the very intoxicated Ensign Hong and Deputy Weysa made out on the stool next to him. Jake carried on a conversation with Rom like nothing was happening, despite some surprising noises coming from the two. (This was noteworthy because later Ensign Hong, in a saliva-induced reverie, asked him if he had a condom while Weysa was in the restroom. Then the crewman looked up and realized with sheer horror who he- or at least who his Dad- was.)

In this case though, it was uncomfortable. Like he was intruding on something profane and intimate, even more so than Hong and Weysa making it to 2nd base practically on his lap. He felt like he needed to apologize right away. In addition it was probably creepy to have this many speculative insights on two men he didn’t even really think of as friends.

The phrase ‘get a room’ was made for those two.

Thankfully musing about… whatever was between Garak and Bashir took up enough time for Worf to work up his nerve. Only a few small chunks of vegetable and greasy red streaks remained on his plate, so there was no excuse to put it off any longer.

“Here,” said Worf, who slipped him a data rod under the table. It prodded him in the knee before he was able to lean down and grab it without looking. It was like they were engaging in one of Quark’s shady deals, just somehow even less subtle. 

Jake furrowed his brow as his PADD uploaded the contents and revealed… a text document? Maybe a standard page long. “Worf, what is this?”

The Klingon looked nervous as ever, “They are some notes that I have written. You had said that there was little official information concerning minotaur society, and I gave some thought to what Jadzia said about making things up. I thought I would try it.”

The first few lines were a brief description of a minotaur capital- Youmadan- a city of stone walkways and massive walls. Sure, it was dry. It read more like a history book or lecture notes, but Jake couldn’t expect anyone to get florid relating the first Bull-King, H’awiram, son of Zarbull’ah, who founded Youmadan after a war with the Dragonborn over a thousand years prior… 

Jake was impressed, “This is good Worf. Like really good.”

“Thank you,” he replied, mystified, but the nerves soothed somewhat, “You may use them as you wish, or not at all if it’s… inappropriate.”

This was a big deal and he wished he could treat it as such in the open. Worf was being creative; he was speculating a history for his character’s people, filling in a gap in the world. Then he did the most frightening thing possible and volunteered it. Jake wished he could say he was so proud, but didn’t want Worf to think he was patronizing. No, that was too much. No, instead he would do the Dungeon Master’s equivalent of putting a drawing up on the Replicator.

“Do you have any more?”

Worf looked very caught off guard.

He read another few lines- the legendary heroine Xhamirat slew a demon while pregnant, then gave birth to Hass’ur, founder of a great line of warriors. Maybe Bob was a descendant. Jake smiled, “Because this is good and I don’t have anything really planned for the minotaurs… so if you come up with anything else, I’d like to see it.”

Then, by some miracle, Worf smiled. A real one where the corners of his eyes disappeared underneath his beetling brows. It wasn’t unheard of. He could be downright jovial if he caught an enemy in a trap, or Dax made the right joke, or Martok cracked a bottle over someone’s head like during last week’s barfight. Except this was private, which was why Jake felt like he’d been given a great boon. 

“Thank you,” his smile faded to something faint, but satisfied, “I will.”

With the vulnerability having dragged on far too long for either of them, Worf took his tray and headed back to Ops. Jake dutifully read the rest of the notes and made a few of his own for interesting places where the lore could pop up or- who knows- maybe start a new questline entirely.

He must’ve been putting out psychic D&D waves, because he wasn’t alone for long.

“Ahhhh, Dungeon Master!” heralded Bashir, empty tray in one hand and a PADD tucked under an arm, “Wouldn’t happen to be working on this week’s foray into the Withered Woods?”

“Something like that,” Jake smiled in a way he hoped looked enigmatic. Over at the table where Bashir had been eating, Garak was gone. Probably back to the tailor’s shop. “What are you and Mr. Garak reading this week?”

Their lunch dates may have been common knowledge, but the doctor still bristled as if Jake was shouting Starfleet Access Level 2 or 3 intelligence across the Replimat. “Ah, well. I’m doing a bit of homework, you see. I thought I’d brush up on my Islamic poetry for the campaign…”

For the second time that day, Jake was swimming in pride. They really liked the session! They were doing homework! “How’d that go over?”

Bashir glared, his nostrils flaring, “I shouldn’t have hoped that a Cardassian would understand the themes of Sufi poetry...”

Jake checked the time in the corner of his PADD. Why not? There was time for this rant, so he leaned back in his chair, “Take it something got lost in translation?”

He swore he could hear Bashir’s internal kettle whistling, “Can you believe it? He called Rumi’s _Diwan-e Shams-e Tabrizi_ ‘the zealous ravings of an oversexed alcoholic’. It’s a very personal meditation on a man’s ecstatic relationship with his god!”

Having never read Rumi aside from motivational posters in a Starfleet counselor’s office, Jake just nodded.

“I’m going to make him read Antarah’s war poetry. Or wait! Sachal!,” he pouted resolutely, “And I’ll go in and change all mentions of Allah to ‘the State’, see what he thinks of it then. Hah!”

That went over his head. Should he laugh in solidarity or shrug in consolation? He went for the third option and took his tray to the Disassembler, “Good luck with that, Doctor Bashir. See you Thursday.”

Bashir let out a laugh that on a more substantial man would have been hearty, “Don’t make anything that’ll kill us too quickly!”

The rest of the week went fairly quiet. Sometimes he worked on the campaign, sometimes he made an attempt on one of his own stories, a few times he even left his quarters without the excuse of a meal or prompting from his Dad. When it was just himself for company, he sometimes liked to hang out in the cargo bay Keiko had turned into a conservatory. It was always quiet and if he closed his eyes he could fool himself into thinking he was planetside somewhere.

Once, when he was still a child, Jake had been given a collection of folk tales from Earth. Myths and legends, heroes and gods, the explanations for the natural world. One chapter contained various stories and snippets about Gaelic faeries. It touched on different types, whatever distinguishing headwear they wore, and the different pranks they’d pull on humans. How they could make themselves invisible to carry out their mischief or make a quick getaway. How they could be summoned on a breeze or with a gift. While he didn’t keep the book, the descriptions of pucks and spriggans stuck with him. 

Particularly when Lieutenant Dax would appear grinning, seemingly out of nowhere. Sure, she could suss out his location from the computer, but it was unsettling how he only looked down for a second to study a pale orange Rigellian Petunia, then looked up to a very serious-looking Dax.

“You need to let me see Julian’s character sheet.”

He sputtered, “Wait-What? Why?” 

Her gambit lasted a few more seconds as she failed to devise a believable follow-up. Dax was more than happy to fib, but this was turning into an all-out lie, and against someone she doggedly wouldn’t do that to, ” ...because... “

“I see,” Jake glared, unimpressed,” Yeah. Let me pull it up right now for you.”

If he were cooler, he would reach into his bag and pull out his hand flipping the bird or give her the Vulcan Arm Pinch of Great Inconvenience, just to punctuate. Instead he shook his head with grave mock disappointment, “Dax. I swore the Dungeon Masters’ oath.”

“First of all that’s not an actual thing, nice try,” she folded her arms gamely, “Second, I’ve seen everyone’s character sheets- except for Julian’s. I helped Kira and Worf make their sheets, and Miles was happy to show me his when I asked. He even sent me a copy! We talked about it for like twenty minutes straight in the middle of ops yesterday morning.”

“Well did you ask Dr. Bashir?”

“Yes,” her eyes and face rolled for emphasis.

“So why don’t you…” he paused before adding a qualifying air finger, “And I’m not saying to do this to Dr. Bashir- why don’t you do what you always do with Odo’s terminal? Distract him, then sneak a peek when he’s not looking?”

Her eyes narrowed at the corners. The vexed, yet sheepish look on her face (and her long track record) told him that not only had she tried this, but multiple times without success. Her unflappable curiosity had been foiled. No, worse: the Second Law of Jadzia was against the bright-eyed doggedness of Julian Bashir. The Irresistible Force versus the Immovable Object. 

Since he wasn’t actually going to punish her for her antics, Jake just sighed, “Dax…”

“He wrote it out in Arabic, Jake. Arabic. My translator isn’t one of the new ones that work on the visual cortex, and you know doctor handwriting,” she groaned. Truth be told, neither Jake or his Dad had one of those either. It would take a while before the price deflated, so for now they were one of those unattainable barometers of affluence like food Replicators that didn’t impart an ionized tang to the meal or shatter-proof warp core casings. Getting ahold one wasn’t a problem, but enough to outfit all of Starfleet? Dax ran a hand through her ponytail, adding, “He doesn’t even use Arabic on his personal case notes…”

“So he wants to keep his sheet private. If a player wants to do that it’s their business.”

“I don’t want to see his stats, I just want to see his background and character history.”

“That’s not better!” he whined, “I’d say he’s even more in his rights to keep that a secret.”

She unfolded her arms, looking him dead in the eye, “You know, though. And you know more beyond that because we gave you those notes at the start of the session.” 

Even Dax wasn’t rude enough to ask, so the question hovered between them.

This wasn’t funny any more. Now he didn’t care how much she wanted to know, it was against Bashir’s wishes and also a little appalling that she’d try to breach confidentiality on a whim. He wanted his players to trust him, needed them to. “Dax,” he hoped the sureness in his voice clued her in to how serious he was, “I need you to drop it. I won’t betray Dr. Bashir- I’d do the same if he asked for your backstory. It’s not mine to give.”

The sudden gravity made her grimace, like she just realized how close to the line she’d stepped. “God, I’m sorry Jake. You’re right… I just hate not knowing, even if it’s just for a game.”

“You’re a Starfleet Science officer. Pretty sure it’s in your job description,” he didn’t bring himself to smile, though the situation was easing up, “Just. Don’t ask me again.”

“You’re right,” she assented, “I won’t.”

“… except one thing. One little thing and my curiosity’ll be sated.” That’ll be the day.

“Dax,” he warned.

“Yes or no, and it’s about all of us, not just Ilyas.”

He blinked.

“Is Ilyas going to go all evil and kill us?” her face cracked into a smirk.

It was a valid concern. While he couldn’t predict that far down the road, based on what he’d seen of Ilyas’ alignment and backstory…

He gave her a shrug wide enough to accidentally hit a potting stand, followed by his arms falling to his side with a soft ‘whap’. Like a clockwork toy, he turned on his heel and started out of the conservatory, “Guess you’ll just have to find out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hundreds of years of progress and still nobody can read doctor handwriting.
> 
> -No O'Brien in this one, but he'll be getting his very own POV chapter fairly soon.
> 
> -Worf's names for the minotaur culture notes were modified from Assyrian and Akkadian.
> 
> -I envision the Bajoran religion a lot like Vajrayana (Tibetan) Buddhism since they already have some of the aesthetic earmarks. According to the Tibetan Book of the Dead there's a transitional period after death where the soul is traveling through a gauntlet of the afterlife to reach where they'll be reincarnated. I headcanon that the lit braziers Kira watches after deaths are like that.
> 
> Next chapter: The group ventures into the Withered Woods to find the missing villagers and the party gets a new member...


	9. It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player appears, with benefits and complications...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mini update since I was second drafting this hella long chunk and it didn't quite fit the flow to have the In-Character/Out of Character connected with this new player. Sorry about the update drought, but *holidays*. New chapters are in progress!

Session two was about to begin when the doors of the wardroom were figuratively darkened. 

“Ah! Good to see you haven’t gotten underway, Mr. Sisko.” 

Jake looked up from his notes to see an unexpected figure strolling in with a PADD under his arm, wearing a diabolical suit of teal and chartreuse silk.   
  
“Garak!” Bashir exclaimed giddily, and Jake swore that he could see actual stars in his eyes.   
  
“Not yet, we were waiting for everybody to get settled… something you need Mr. Garak?” Something didn’t seem right. Jake always expected Garak would appear with a rumble of thunder or lightning like in old holofilms. Maybe swishing a cape.   
  
The Cardassian smiled beneficently,” Oh, I was just curious. You see, Dr. Bashir hasn’t been able to stop talking about his character for your game at lunch. I had to know what had him so distracted from the memoirs of Glin Pakal and gave him the callow idea to read Rumi.” 

Kira glared daggers while Bashir slid ever floor-wards.

“So?” grunted the Chief. He never liked belaboring conclusions. Or Garak.  
  
“So I did some cursory research of the various iterations! What an interesting concept, Mr. Sisko! And you’ve opted not to play in the holosuite, which turns it into- what I assume to be- an invigorating exercise in creative thinking.”   
  
Jake tried not to roll his eyes. Sometimes Garak had all of the subtlety of a Ferengi used shuttle salesman. People finding out about the campaign wasn’t surprising, but he was more than a little intimidated that an ‘alleged’ Cardassian spy wanted to join in. It would be like holding a tiger by the tail. And wouldn’t six players be a little unwieldy for his second outing as a Dungeon Master?

He truly spoke for them all when O’Brien uttered a weary, “Oh God.”

Across the table, Kira had a scowl so deep that it looked like she had grown extra ridges. “He can’t join! We’ve already started our story!”  
  
“Oh, but we haven’t even left Duskwood yet! It shouldn’t be too hard to work in a new character,” Bashir pleaded, “Especially under mysterious or magical circumstances.”

“Tactically speaking our party is severely imbalanced,” Worf added,” Another player of an appropriate skill set would make for easier victory. Do you intend on playing a spellcaster of some kind, Mr. Garak?”

“Do you know how to play, Garak?” the Trill piped up between re-rolling her ever-multiplying sets of candy-colored dice. Once again, Dax was an unexpected voice of reason. 

Like a dandy doffing his hat, Garak offered the PADD to Jake, “I believe you’ll find my character sheet and backstory in working order. I hope you don’t mind, but I poked around in the ancillary resources and modified my character to suit.”

It was _quite_ the document. His stats were superior to the party’s, but Garak dutifully noted that he rolled for them instead of arranging a manual spread. (They _could_ have been legitimately attained by chance). There were discipline trees, attribute lists, a sizable backstory, honestly exactly what Jake had expected from all the stories.   
  
“You homebrewed?” he gaped at the figures,” for your first character? I don’t know.. That’s pretty ambitious Mr. Garak. Give me a few minutes to see if it’ll even work.”   
  
“I have nothing but faith in your creative abilities, Dungeon Master,” he preened. There may have been a slight bow, but by then Jake was waist-deep in cross-referencing Psionicist rules.

This was going to take more than a quick glance: some of these spells weren't even in the book! Jake blindly waved towards the table, “Go ahead and sit down if you-”  
  
Before he could finish the sentence, Bashir had clumsily shoved his materials over into the Chief’s tablespace. “Sit next to me, Garak!” 

“Jake, you can’t seriously be considering this. He’s just going to trip us up and backstab us in the end.”  
  
Garak didn’t so much sit as waft into the chair the doctor had pulled out for him, “Now Major, what would be the point of that? Besides, I believe it’s Lieutenant Dax who’s playing the rogue in this party.”   
  
That earned a wry grin from the Trill. So it was three for, two against. As DM Jake was intrigued by the dynamic the tailor could offer. As a teenager with a treasure trove of secondhand dealings with the man, he was nervous. Spectrum-wise, Kira hated him a bit less than Dukat (which wasn’t saying much) while Bashir genuinely liked him to an unknown extent (though everyone had their suspicions). If there was ever a time for Sisko diplomacy…   
  
Handing back the PADD, Jake announced,” Okay. You’ll join us tonight as a guest player. If things go well, you can come in as a regular. D&D is about being flexible, but party chemistry is important, Mr. Garak. Got it?”   
  
“An excellent compromise,” the tailor beamed like a bratty child. Oh god, was he going to regret this? Did his Dad feel like this after every personnel decision?   
  
Around the table, the others weren’t as vocal. O’Brien shrugged dismally- acceptance was really the best he’d get at this point. Kira was similarly grumpy, but could live with one session of Garak sabotaging their leisure time. Worf nodded tacitly. Dax continued weeding out any treacherous dice from her fold- nobody knew if the thumbs up was approval or a natural 19. Bashir rested his cheek on his hand and pretended to look over his character sheet, but fooled no one with his goopy smile.

With a copy of his character sheet sent, Garak had nothing to do but patiently wait the hour and a half (plus a bathroom break courtesy of the three glasses of prune juice Worf had downed) for the party to finish their preparations. Inquiries were made of the local townsfolk: four young people had gone missing, one after the other, starting just after the harvest festival. The most recent was a Gnomish girl named Hana, last seen two evenings ago headed towards the ancient ruins of Goz Hameth, which was said to harbor a dark secret. Except now everyone expected said dark secret to be Garak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I did roll Garak's stats the old-fashioned way. Me/The Bastard rolled so many fives and sixes that I had to lightningbolt his lowest two stats to something UNDER a 14.
> 
> MORE NON-ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE AND SNACK IDEAS? IS THERE MOUNTAIN DEW IN THE FUTURE? WILL KIRA RUPTURE A BLOOD VESSEL IN HER FOREHEAD? FIND OUT NEXT WEEK WHEN:
> 
> Ruins: Crawled. Faces: Blushing. Undead: ....crap


	10. I Attack the Darkness, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak's character joins the party on their adventure into the ruins of Goz Hameth: mysteries, poor rolls, and sidebar conversations are on the horizon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the break guys, but session chapters end up as monsters it seems. However I've worked out a new format for the fight scenes to make them easier to right. Part II is in final draft and will be up within the next two days!
> 
> Dramatis Personae:  
> O'Brien playing Finnbar Brightflayer, Dwarf Fighter  
> Dax playing Poesy "Poe" Caladar, Half-Elf Rogue  
> Kira playing Syren of Rojab, Halfling Paladin  
> Worf playing Bob of Cowtown, Minotaur Barbarian  
> Bashir playing Ilyas Tahalmarin, Elf Bard  
> and Garak... tbh...

Autumn’s cull of foliage had done little to thin the woods and speed their passage. There had been... setbacks. 

First, the group decided to take the path around a pond instead of over a bluff and lost an hour of daylight backtracking when they ended up in a cowfield. While on the margin of said pond they fought off three uncharacteristically vicious and oversized bullfrogs, one of whom bit Ilyas. His pride was injured more than his foot, but blood loss was blood loss. Almost back in the forest, Bob spied a stand of berry bushes that gave them a day’s worth of rations, but lost them more time. By the time the first piles of pale stone appeared through the trees, sunset blurred orange across the sky.

They beheld the crumbling ruins around them, a silent record of whoever left the graceful arches and wide colonnades. Amid the curtains of withered ivy and trees growing within the fractured walls glimmered a campfire. Poe’s hawk-like eyes caught it first and she found herself volunteered to stalk ahead and investigate.

_Jake called for a stealth check. For a rogue, it’d be easy-peasy, lemon-_

_“You’ve got to be kidding me! A 2! Even with my modifier that’s only a 6.” Dax huffed, sending a flyaway hair airborne._

_“A 6? Tough luck.”_

_“Well these dice are going in the Disassembler.” They went tumbling into a Starfleet-issued pillowcase that served as the sacrificial vessel. Across the table O’Brien crossed himself semi-ironically._

The half elf stepped deftly onto a dry twig, which snapped.

_“Garak, what’s your character’s passive perception?”_

_“More than 6, Mr. Sisko. I assure you.” Just to be fair, Jake tabbed over to check. All right- an 11- not too shabby, but still realistic. Mortal, even._

A voice called out to the intruding rogue, “Who’s there? Are you living or dead?”

“Living!” she assured, “And I’d like to stay that way.” 

But the stranger's voice held a note of trepidation,” Come out and you’ll have no quarrel with me, you can share my fire.”

_“Garak, I’m sorry but…”_

_The tailor gave her an easy wave,” Oh think nothing of it, Lieutenant. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”_

_“Does he seem to be lying or acting weird, Jake?”_

_“Roll an insight check, Dax.”_

_Kira scoffed,” It’s Garak in some cursed ruins, what else is he doing?”_

Alas, she was unable to glean intent from the stranger’s voice alone. If he was lying then maybe he had something to do with the missing people. If he was telling the truth- well, how threatening could one mysterious person camping in some haunted woods be? 

A gambler at heart, Poe knew something of odds, “Let me call my friends. I promise we won’t hurt you.”

_“In fairness to storytelling, I won’t do the same to you, Lieutenant.”_

_“Unless your character would,” Jake was quick to counter, ”If you’re doing it to speed things along or hack the game, that’s called metagaming, Garak, and it’s sooort of frowned upon. What would your character do?”_

_“Oh, I assure you, he’s the trusting sort.” Again, there was the expectation of a slow scene dissolve or eerie music._

Poe summoned her nearby compatriots with a low whistle. They emerged from the thicket one by one and finally caught a glimpse of the stranger. In the light of a modest campfire sat a strapping tiefling youth with smokey rose-colored skin and copper eyes. Two curved horns swept back from his brow and over a head of wine dark hair. Instead of boots his slanted legs ended in goat hooves while a plumed tail twitched idly behind. For a total stranger, he looked contrite.

“Hells-spawn,” Finnbar growled upon seeing their host. Ser Syren wasn’t any more at ease and unsheathed her broadsword.

The tiefling lifted his clawed hands in appeasement, “Please, I mean you no harm. I was asked to come here by the village to help cleanse the ruins.”

“Oh like Prophets you were,” Syren balled her hands into fists and drove them onto a nearby table,” Insight check!”

_“I will as well, Jake,” assented Worf._

_“Aye, I want to insight check the bastard, too.”_

_“Garak, when you say copper, do you mean more brown or orange?”_

_“Kira,” Jake chided through the utter pandemonium, ”You can’t just say ‘insight check’. You have to say what you’re looking for. What’s setting off alarms for you? And remember, this isn’t Garak, this is… well none of you have asked yet.”_

_“And after I invited you to share my campfire,” Garak tutted, “And more towards orange, Doctor. With black sclera.”_

_“Oh! Lovely.”_

_To everyone’s surprise, Worf rolled the highest with an 18. To everyone’s shock, dismay, and downright anger, Garak’s character was being forthright._

Ilyas stepped in the path of the smoldering paladin in hopes of soothing the situation. 

“Please,” he entreated their host with a small bow, “Forgive our suspicions, sir- we’ve heard stories of the dark things that dwell in these woods. I am Ilyas Tahalmarin, Emir of Zarzoura and these are my companions.”

The tiefling gaped at him, draped in his fine clothes and weaving such niceties in a blighted forest. “A pleasure... I’m sure,” he inclined his horned head, “I’m called Faust. No surname.”

_“Really Garak? Really?_ Faust? _”_

_“I thought it was a simple, strong name.”_

_Bashir fixed him a piercing look, “You named a character of infernal ancestry after an alchemist that made a demonic pact?”_

_“As I said, it’s a strong name,” the Cardassian shrugged his green and blue-clad shoulders,” I would have thought that you’d be pleased that Mr. Goethe’s book left such an impression._

_“Never mind,” sighed the CMO._

_It was easy for Jake to sit back and watch with amusement as the party introduced themselves to Garak’s character and got the usual questions out of the way. There were more demands for insight checks from every player (except Bashir) before raised hackles were smoothed, Kira stopped holding her PADD stylus like an assassin’s dagger, and the party sat down for a short rest._

The mellow notes of Ilyas’ oud hummed while the group took a moment’s respite. Well, as much as a respite as could be had in a haunted forest. As calming as the firelight was, it cast a menagerie of warped shadows on the eroded walls and made some of them jump when it let out a particularly loud crack or pop. 

Sensing it was the perfect time for small talk, Poe cleared her throat and put on a polite smile, “So Faust. What is it that you do?”

“I don’t have a vocation, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, then cocked his head in the same way as a puppy, “I suppose you could say I’m trying to figure everything out.”

“Ain’t we all?” Finnbar huffed, then poked at the fire with a stick.

_Now that he’d uttered more than five words, Jake decided that he was kind of unnerved by Garak’s character voice. It wasn’t necessarily that different in pitch like O’Brien’s, or in accent like Bashir’s, but- age? Nobody expected what Garak said most of the time, but he had a self-assured patter that sounded like he was reading from a script, even in the middle of a Jem’ Hadar attack. There was an omnipotent edge, a reedy keenness that added to its confidence._

_Faust didn’t have that. Without the showman’s poise and snark the tiefling sounded his age (26, according to Garak’s character sheet, which_ had _to be fundamentally true): young, earnest, and uncertain. Other faces around the table were just as spooked._

“But why are you here? If they asked you to help cleanse the ruins, that would imply that you have some skill, at least beyond a mere farmer,” Ilyas’ pleasant countenance softened any insinuation. His golden, albeit skeptical eyes didn’t leave Faust’s, even to play a chord.

The tiefling’s mouth opened slightly, but then he thought better and gave a little nod, “You’re right. I’m not from around here. They were taking volunteers when I was passing through. I’ve trained in defensive magic, and I wanted to help.”

Now the paladin’s interest was piqued, “Defensive magic? Do you belong to some kind of order?”

“No ma’am. For better or worse, I’m unaffiliated and on my own.”

_“Please Jake… I know it’s only been a minute but.. Do I think he’s lying?” whined Kira._

_“Fiiine,” he shrugged, “But hold off on the insight checks on Garak for a little while, okay guys?”_

_“I wouldn’t do that Mr. Sisko. What’s stopping me from lying constantly while I’m under the Dungeon Master’s protection?”_

_Bashir gave him a mild chastising, “Because that’s not in the spirit of the game, Garak! It’s not about successfully lying to each other.”_

_“No,” he murmured, though still audible, “I suppose the game about pretending to be someone else isn’t.”_

_Kira rolled an 11, their new associate would keep his air of mystery a bit longer._

Next to Faust, Bob let out a forceful huff from his snout. He’d sat there for the sake of his more fragile companions, in case the tiefling wasn’t as innocent as he claimed. Throughout their break he’d been rasping the curved edges of his greataxe along a whetstone (despite the various nicks) but then he stopped suddenly. 

“If you’re lying and harm us, you’ll wish you knew defensive magic,” he growled. One of the freshly-honed heads angled upwards.

Faust stared at the weapon and the beefy arms that held it. If Bob willed it, he could pop an arm from a socket with a casual pull. No, judging by how the young tiefling shrank into his threadbare cowl, he wouldn’t be trying anything stupid. His orange within black eyes were round and alight with fear, “No. No sir, I swear it.”

“Don’t mind Bob,” Poe gave the meat mountain a playful shove, “He’s just not a people person. More a… kill people person.” Might not have been true but she wasn’t going to discount the possibility. 

Ilyas rolled his eyes and stuffed the oud back in its satchel, “ _Salaam_. Peace. I believe we have frightened him thoroughly. Unless you would like to next call down your god, Ser Syren?”

Blessings of Bahamut, the paladin could tell he was joking.

“Let’s not bother the Platinum Dragon until we really need it,” she smirked and tried to fold her arms as much as her thick armor would allow, “What kind of defensive magic do you do Mr. Faust? It’d be a good to know before we head into a rough situation.”

“Mental fortitude,” he stared at the fire with a strange wince, “I can shield my mind from attack and push others’ influence away.”

On the tiefling’s other side, Finnbar scoffed, “Oh well that sounds real helpful. Yer mind’ll be safe as houses while you get cut down by an enemy sword.”

“I can protect yours as well.”

“Don’t fret yer horned head, kid-”

_Dax let out an ugly, rattling snort and covered her reddening face with her hands, “... sorry… you made… it was a goat joke.”_

_It must not have been a good one, because nobody was laughing: not even Bashir, who had a dorky sense of humor even by Starfleet Science standards. After a second Kira joined in, but Jake suspected it was sympathetic: because Dax was completely losing it. At this rate there would be hiccups._

_(Did Trill get hiccups?)_

_“What?” she frowned at Worf’s shaking head, “I thought it was funny!”_

_“I- uh, wouldn’t have pegged you as a pun fan, Dax,” Jake grimaced. The long suffering look on the other officers’ faces told him that they’d seen this many times before._

_“Oh, I’m pretty punny when the mood takes me- but Curzon loved them. He was a dad after all. Puns and dirty limericks...”_

_“Dax.”_

_“Actually your Dad taught him a few, Jake!”_

_Before the inevitable racy poetry slam could start, he continued desperately, “So you’ve all finished your short rest, ready to face whatever awaits you. You’re on the western edge of the ruins. How do you want to proceed?”_

_There was blessed silence for a moment as they all appraised his poorly-drawn paper map at the center of the table. Then O’Brien brought his managerial finger out and gave the paper a thorough ‘thwacking’, “I say we head straight to the middle, if we don’t find anything, we fan out from there. Saves time.”_

_“And I say we’re really wimpy right now, so we’re better off skirting around until we get a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” Dax proposed, having seen (just about) everyone’s stats._

_“As the man who was savaged by a bullfrog, I agree.” With that, Bashir excused himself to fetch some tea from the replicator._

_“That’ll take ages!”_

_The Lieutenant stopped rummaging through her dice bag to give him a sour look, “So? It’s not like we have to find these people for Sisko in three hours or less.”_

_“These people have been missing for days! If they’re not being killed by whoever took them then they’re at least contending with starvation. The quicker we find them, the better,” Kira proclaimed, once more blurring the line between in and out of character._

_“We don’t know who took them though. We don’t know anything. For all we know they came here for some crazy party.”_

_“Doubtful,” mused Worf, aiming somewhere between the point and left field, “I believe we would hear music. And they would run out of provisions after all this time. Which makes finding them quickly more important.”_

_“Garak,” Jake noticed just how uncharacteristically quiet he’d been, “Do you have any ideas or want to weigh in on a plan?”_

_For a split second he thought he saw dark amusement in the tailor’s face... Or maybe it was just his imagination. When he thought about it (and boy, had he) there was no way for Garak to sabotage their Dungeons & Dragons game without having a good chunk of Senior Staff embittered. Which included Bashir. _ _Unless that was the point._ _But down that conspiracy-paved path lay insanity. No, for the time being Jake was going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was there for curiosity, social recreation, or old-fashioned fantasy escapism._

_“Thank you for your concern Mr. Sisko,” his expression settled on a gracious smile. He studied the map while smoothing out one of his cuffs, “But I’m trying to approach the situation from Faust’s perspective. After all, we wouldn’t want to- how did you put it- metagame. He’s nervous and would want to go along with what the party decides.”_

_If he didn’t know better, Jake would say that Bajorans could audibly roll their eyes. (Or it was Dax fidgeting with her dice.) Regardless, either Garak was playing DM’s pet or toeing the line until he could break the rules in the most extravagant way possible._

_O’Brien wasn’t buying it either, “But…”_

_Garak’s smile widened, reminiscent of a Terran leopard gecko, “But. I’d be inclined to agree with Lieutenant Dax. When there isn’t enough information, it’s best to er on the side of caution.”_

_“And if we head straight to the middle of the ruins, we might miss some hint that could help us.” Bashir had returned with a mug in each hand, which he sat in front of Garak and himself, “A spell, secret door, maybe a magic sword for all we know.”_

_“I know that Bob of Cowtown thirsts for battle. Going directly to the middle gives him one quicker,” decided Worf, to no one’s surprise. Jake had to admire his dedication to character, because that wasn’t the Tactical Officer in him talking._

_“Assuming -and I apologize if this is metagaming again- that Mr. Sisko followed the tried and true formula and placed the monster in the middle of the maze,” the Cardassian added astutely. Jake offered a (hopefully) unbiased shrug._

_A few members of the party sighed. Dax massaged her spotted temples. If they considered that then they were as good as back to square one again: their unseated and uneasy expressions admitted as much. Of all the decisions they’d be making tonight, Jake hadn’t planned on them getting hung up on this one. Didn’t they deal with split-second decisions on a daily basis?_

_“Can I just say,” the Trill remarked after rolling one of her auxiliary dice poorly, ”That it’s not surprising the players with the highest HP want to cut to the chase.”_

_Uncomfortable silence spread across the table as they waited for the proverbial auburn-haired bomb to drop. Once merely annoyed, Kira’s face tightened into a snarl, “And it’s not surprising the players who wanted the reward the most want to play it safe.”_

_“That’s got nothing to do with it!” snapped Dax._

_“As if you’re the only altruistic one,” there was acid in Bashir’s voice, “Jake, how on the nose is it to tell the paladin not to be such a martyr?”_

_While he’d hoped they’d come to a consensus on their own (and in character, to boot), there was time, sanity, and station morale to consider if a real fight broke out at the table. At least someone was enjoying the show, if the brief, fond smile on Garak’s face meant anything._

_“A MARTYR? You don-”_

_It was his turn to take a page out of Kira’s book and slam his fists against the table,”I need everyone’s passive perceptions,_ right now _!”_

As the band of adventurers packed up their things, a faint scream pierced the darkness. High-pitched and primeval- the kind that couldn’t be feigned. The kind that made hairs stick up on necks. Their heads whipped around in every direction, trying to divine the source.

_By some miracle of the Prophets, the Overseer, or Gygax, he’d rolled a 9. From behind his PADD palisade they’d never know how much they owed him._

“Can anyone tell where that came from?” Syren’s eyes were as round as her shield, “Ilyas? Bob? Poe?”

The elf frowned at her, “You know, just because we have long ears…”

Poe shushed him and pointed at Bob.

The barbarian’s eyes were closed, but his ears and nose were twitching a flurry. His deep, snuffling concentration gave the impression of his nostrils staring into the distance like a bird of prey- desperately renting the air for a source, a scent. When at last he opened his big, brandy-wet eyes, he jerked his head eastward, “It came from that direction. East and South.”

His companions stared in awe. If minotaurs were capable of smiling in the traditional sense, there’d certainly be one plastered across his bovine mug.

“You figure that all out from that clever hooter of yours?” Finnbar teased as the group moved out.

Bob shuffled next to him, with Syren and Poe in the lead, Ilyas in the middle providing illumination, and Faust whispering questions about the spell on his heels. For the sake of their marching order, he had to take very small steps. “No. The wind, the walls. I learned a lot about tracking in the wilderness. I cannot smell screams, I think. They would probably smell rank.”

That made Finnbar let out a rasping bark of a laugh, which brought the line to a halt as Syren irately shushed him. Her mood didn’t improve when Faust excused himself to the front of the column. Next to her. 

Irked, but still a beacon of chivalric manners, she prompted,” Yes?”

“Sorry to be a bother, Ser… ma’am… but think I could be helpful up here with you,” his tone was much too polite for her to tolerate- he sounded more like a farmboy on his first market day than a spawn of the Nine Hells. It would be so much easier to hate him if he were actually awful.

_A good chunk of the table had difficulty stifling their startled gags and snorts of laughter. Jake couldn’t decide if this was the funniest or most frightening thing he’d seen all week: those words and that voice coming out of that mouth. Garak paid no mind, but obviously enjoyed the attention his performance garnered._

“You?” her pauldrons rattled in mirth. Instead of irritation, she looked at him with slight pity,” I appreciate your enthusiasm but you’re not made to take a front line attack. I mean... You aren’t even wearing any armor. No offense, but I’ll take my chances with my god and my shield.”

Before she shifted her pace quicker, she added, “Thanks though.”

Beacon of chivalric manners, after all.

Rebuffed, Faust fell back to the vaguely-armored and pointy-eared cluster Ilyas and Poe made. Perhaps because she knew he would see it, the half-elf gave him an easy wink, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Ser Sanctimonious just in case the lights go out and she trips on a grumpkin or something. And I’ll take one of those fancy imbue-mints anytime.”

“The lights should not go out,” Ilyas called to her advancing back. Too late. She’d already slung an arm around Syren’s now very tense shoulders. Looking at Faust, he added with a pleasant hum, “And I would gladly welcome your aid as well.”

_“Sod it! This auto-roller is corrupted!“ Bashir smacked his pad, which ended up being much less dramatic with the silicone safety case in place, “Probability-speaking this shouldn’t even be possible!”_

He attempted his own wink at the tiefling, but looked like a gnat had flown in his eye instead. Elven grace could only do so much.

_“Sorry Dr. Bashir. A 3 is a 3. Hey, with your proficiency, though it’s not too embarrassing.” Even Jake couldn’t claim fault: this was the Cosmos shutting him down. Luckily the challenge rating of flirting with a player character wasn’t up to him._

_“Not -too- embarrassing, I’m a bard!” he whined._

_“I assure you, my dear Doctor, Faust is… nascently charmed,” the tailor soothed listlessly, which made Bashir’s face go through a spectrum of bewilderment. No one wielded ironic sympathy quite like Garak._

_The Chief smirked into his ginger beer, “Boy doesn’t get out much, does he?”_

_Then, as if cursed by the Wizards of the Coast themselves, the Doctor’s face petrified as Garak leaned over and whispered into his ear. Even after reading his character sheet, Jake had a moment of embarrassment before he realized what was going on._

“ _Stay within reach then_ ,” rippled a pleasant voice through the elf’s head. Truly, the woods were haunted! Ilyas went still and only budged when Finnbar pummeled into him.

“Oi, what gives? You decorating some fancy garden?” the dwarf groused into the small of his back.

He jolted forward, perhaps a little too quickly, “Apologies, my mind was elsewhere…”

“ _Oh! Sorry for the scare Mister Tahalmarin_ ,” the voice echoed through his brain again, just present enough to be unmistakable for his own thoughts, “ _Maybe I should have told you when we weren’t on the move_.”

_Bashir still hadn’t recovered from the shock of the Cardassian’s lips so close to the shell of his ear, even if it was for narrative effect. He was slumped back over his chair and if not for the occasional blink (or his habit of sitting in unconventional ways), Jake would have assumed he’d fainted. To probably everyone’s relief, both of Garak’s hands were visible._

_“Oh no fair, he gets telepathy?” Dax pouted._ _Across the table the tailor preened._

_Of all the other players present, she could’ve found a juicy homebrew class of her own the easiest. Jake explained, with no real sympathy, “Psions of the Awakened Mind get it first level.”_

_“Damn… can I change class?”_

_“You’re a menace enough without telepathy,” groaned the Chief, hopefully not envisioning the same unholy Dax-Troi hybrid sauntering through Jake’s brain._

_“Not in the middle of a session,” he chided the person about twenty times older than him, “Just wait a couple more, you’ll level up and we can see about you multiclassing.”_

_It sounded nice, but he only half meant it. Even if she met the skill level requirements, everyone multiclassing this early in the campaign sounded like torture. Just (literally) keeping tabs on Garak’s psionicist was going to be a chore._

The bard narrowed his eyes and the one furrow in his brow appeared. He channeled every ounce of Al-Fannanin mental fortitude into the phrase “can I reply?” and sent it out into the aether. 

Instead of any verbal response, his lights went out.

_Bashir slammed his face into his palm, “So I didn’t make the check_ and _I lost concentration? Well done, me. Brilliant.”_

_“To be fair, to have made the DC you would’ve had to actually be telepathic,” he thought that was decent consolation for a 12._

Syren’s voice hissed back at him, “Ilyas? Are you all right?”

Of course, he couldn’t tell her that he lost spell concentration trying to talk to Faust through his gray matter and thin air. Instead, he nodded (not that she would see) and summoned more luminous orbs, “Yes. Apologies. I thought I had heard something and reacted poorly.”

They continued, stumbling into a cracked stone avenue overgrown with shrubs and small trees. More ruined walls teeming with shadows and vines loomed on either side. This had been more than just a citadel or shrine- Goz Hameth in its prime must have been a town- and a remarkable one at that. Finnbar paused their column to get a closer look at some stonework.

As their companion prodded the masonry, Faust stood next to Ilyas and whispered sheepishly, “Sorry. I haven’t mastered it well enough for someone to reply back.”

The elf stared straight ahead, too poised, “I simply was not prepared, is all. Do the others know?”

“I wasn’t sure how they’d react. You didn’t seem too bothered by me, so I...”

“Flattered as I am, I believe it would be advantageous to let them know,” he took a swig from his canteen, “At least Poe. She seems to be an open-minded sort.”

In the distance a familiar half-elven voice shrieked, “WHAT THE HELLS?!"

“I let Miss Poe know,” beamed Faust.

_“Garak,” Dax’s face was alight with an evil grin, “Could you do that and convince Syren that her god is talking to her?”_

_Kira’s face morphed into a reaction so repulsed Jake would have thought she was watching Gul Dukat perform burlesque, “Why would you…”_

_“I would imagine if you roll deception high enough that anything’s possible,” the tailor shrugged, his focus was taken up by the small Bajoran charcuterie board the Major had furnished, “I’m afraid Faust wouldn’t want to upset the woman, though.”_

_Whether she meant to or not, Kira nodded appreciatively and anyone who witnessed it experienced a brief miracle. Probably not the Bajoran-Cardassian peace accord intended for the wardroom, but you had to start somewhere. Now thinking of himself as a budding diplomat, Jake smiled and snatched up an unknown pickle from the platter._

_“Sorry, you wanted me to roll what for looking at the stonework?” O’Brien interrupted his warm moment of optimism._

_“History with advantage, Chief, since your character does have experience.”_

”Ivy growth can’t be more’n a hundred years, stone’d be much more damaged,” Finnbar stooped forward and slipped his tongue over the masonry, “Peh.. Faerun sandstone, local limestone in the mortar, though. Human build- can tell by the chistlemarks, and the holes left behind for crossbeams’n such.”

The dwarf turned to his dumbstruck companions and cracked his neck,” Aye, I’d wager these walls have been standing ‘bout ... Seven, eight hundred years?”

“You licked the wall,” Poe observed, cringing.

“It’s how we dwarves learn.”

“Please don’t learn more about me.”

Ever the charmer, Finnbar stuck out his tongue and gave it a crude waggle. Poe knitted up her shoulders and squealed. 

“If this place was built by humans, where did they all go?” asked Syren, clutching her holy symbol. The night seemed to be getting darker.

“Maybe they all died.” Everyone gaped at Ilyas, who clearly hadn’t meant to be heard or taken seriously, “Ah. Apologies. A paltry jest.”

In the glow of the floating orbs, Bob looked around the tree-covered site. So much had been swallowed up by the woods, yet certain portions were clear. Nothing was intact, however. “Why was such a formidable place abandoned?”

“Judging by how the locals talked about it, it wasn’t forgotten,” Poe remarked.

The paladin clanked forward to the next shell of walls and peered over the remnants of a windowsill. She called over her shoulder, negotiating her chin onto her pauldron in the process, “Ilyas, light please!”

Poe wandered over and stood behind her. It was a move of pure convenience (and nothing else) to rest her chin on the halfling’s head, “Hm, you see anything?”

_“Jake, could I help Kira on this roll?”_

_Kira swatted Dax bashfully, “No, I’ve got this one.”_

_The Trill fixed her with a blue stare that suggested that in another life she was a hypnotic boa constrictor, “You’ll want my help.”_

_Even with advantage, the auto-roller sounded only a passable 13- until Dax regally added,” With a plus four to that, Mr. DM.”_

_Jake hoped they wouldn’t abuse it and assign Dax as everyone’s investigation roll sugar daddy (which, if the stories were anything to go by, Curzon would have loved). Still, it was nice to see their previous disagreement smoothed over. Though they were too good of friends to let something stupid like RPG strategy get in the way._

Just past the wall, a limp object was barely tucked into the rubble and roots. Poe climbed in through the window with a little too much ease and plucked it from the detritus. It was soft, man-made, and clumped in her hands as she brought it back to the sill.

“It’s a shawl,” the rogue held up the knitted, once cream-colored garment.

“Could it be Hana’s? Or one of the others?” Syren asked.

“Hey Bob!” Poe waved into the dim light, “C’mere, we need your nose!”

_“Bob’s nose is not particularly keen, he simply snorts while concentrating,” reminded Worf._

_“She doesn’t know that. Earlier it looked like you smelled where the scream was coming from.”_

_The Klingon relented; it made sense in-character. And it made Bob seem cooler. “That is fair. What should I roll to examine the shawl? Could I tell how long it had been abandoned?”_

_Jake gave the skill list a brief peek, “Roll for… Survival, Worf.”_

_“Good,” he smiled- Bob had proficiency._

The minotaur pressed his snout into the fibers of the shawl. Sure, it was dirty, but not ruined by weather or repeatedly beaten into the mud. There was a note of mildew. The material was damp, but not rotting. In fact, with a good washing it would be perfectly wearable again.

“No more than four, five days,” Bob reported before he stashed the shawl in his haversack.

“Not the girl Hana, then,” observed Ilyas, playing with one of the gold rings in his ear, “She has been gone for less than two days.”

Syren fiddled with the end of her braid, “Or it could belong to the ones who took her. Or someone looking for her. Who were the other missing people?”

There was a brief crackling of paper as the elf fished out his notes from their inquiries,” Allow me to… Hana, of course, 17, missing two days. Bidloe, halfling, 18, missing four days. Qorina, human, 17, missing five days. And the first: Ellewise, gnome, 36, missing....”

_“-sorry Julian, I keep forgetting about how the other fantasy races age,” Dax remarked after a hasty interruption, “I kept thinking- 36, I thought they were teenagers…”_

_The Chief clapped his hands together,” Oh, that’s right! Half-elves age more like humans! See, Finnbar’s almost a hundred and sixty and he’s just hitting middle age for a dwarf.”_

_“Interesting. I read that halflings become adults around the same time as humans, but live a lot longer,” Kira mused over her half-empty mug of raktajino._

_“You ask me,_ elves _are the worst,” the engineer gave his friend’s shoulder a good-natured jostle._

_Kira’s face made an ‘oh’ of fascination, “How old is Ilyas, Julian?”_

_With an affected sigh, Bashir teetered back in his chair, interlacing his hands over his chest, “My friends, a gentleman never asks and a lady never tells…”_

_Dax slid her foot under the table and stepped on one of the hovering legs of Bashir’s chair. He unceremoniously tipped upright with a thump. And who couldn’t at least smirk at that? “Pretty as you and your elf are, you’re not a lady and right now I’m not a gentleman. So how old is he?”_

_“According to the Player’s Handbook,” after a dramatic cough, Garak read, “Elves reach adulthood at the age of one hundred…”_

_What was probably supposed to be a scowl on Bashir’s face ended up a betrayed pout. Thankfully the conversation shifted again, though everyone was wondering: just who was older- Finnbar or Ilyas? For his own amusement, Jake referenced both of their sheets. He could do that._

All they could agree on was their evidence was inconclusive and there was no sure way to tell which (if any) of the missing youths had dropped the shawl. (Although Poe made the valid point that a gnome would be swimming in it.) The area was combed for tracks and picked over for signs of struggle, but yielded nothing. Out of desperation, Syren closed her eyes and sought counsel from her god. There was something strange, unsettling in the air. If the physical realm offered no clarity, perhaps the Platinum Dragon would.

Almost instantly the paladin’s eyes snapped open in fright. Even during her training in old lichyards, her prayers of detection never registered something significant. Oh, but the cold chill creeping down her neck was unmistakable. She gave Ilyas’ hands a hurried slap and admonished as clear and quiet as able, “Undead. Undead! Cut the lights. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYS GARAK'S TWUNK.


	11. I Attack the Darkness, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party faces the undead, O'Brien has a bad day (but not the worst), and has Jadzia made a dice convert?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dramatis Personae:  
> O'Brien playing Finnbar Brightflayer, Dwarf Fighter  
> Dax playing Poesy "Poe" Caladar, Half-Elf Rogue  
> Kira playing Syren of Rojab, Halfling Paladin  
> Worf playing Bob of Cowtown, Minotaur Barbarian  
> Bashir playing Ilyas Tahalmarin, Elf Bard  
> and Garak playing Faust, Tiefling Psionicist

With a sharp inhale of dread, the orbs of light were put out and everyone scrambled behind a pile of rubble. More unearthly than the verdigris moonlight shifting through the trees, two clouds of pale purple floated across the avenue ahead, turned, and continued towards them. Moaning- in a language incomprehensible but sad- became louder as they drew near. Within each spectral miasma was a hollow-eyed figure.

_“Would Faust know what these creatures are?” asked Garak, wiping his mouth from a piece of Bajoran cured sausage._

_“Let’s see.. make an arcana check, Garak.”_

_There was a spring of excitement in the way he tapped the buttons on his PADD and chipperly announced, “A 16 and with my own proficiency- 21.”_

_As entertaining as the failures were, Jake was finding he liked it a lot more when they triumphed. Across the table Dax sat dumbfounded, “Wow… okay… I pick locks. Garak knows weird stuff.”_

_“Sounds about right,” Kira gawked, reviewing her own proficiency bonuses with a disappointed frown._

When Faust recognized the entities, his mouth fell open. Out of dire necessity he sent a mental message to each of his companions,” _Specters. Don’t let them near you. I’ve heard they can suck the life force from a person_.”

“Do we want to jump them?” whispered Poe. It looked like the ghostly pair hadn’t noticed them yet.

_“Ooh, sorry Dax- but Poe spoke, so everyone roll a stealth check. Let’s see how well you’re hiding!” Okay, the failures were really fun._

_“Ugh! Me and my big mouth,” griped the Trill like a teenager- not that it was a problem for Poe’s gargantuan stealth aptitude. Jake expected it would be Kira- with her disadvantage- that would give them away._

It looked like Finnbar was about to let out a curse, but Bob managed to react quickly. One meaty forearm enveloped the dwarf in a smothering headlock. While it didn’t calm him down, he wasn’t giving away their position, either.

With no choice than to act as interpreter, Faust tapped Poe on the shoulder and transmitted, “ _I have some spells that could help keep them at a distance. Can anyone else attack at range_?”

Frustrated shakes of the head from Bob, Syren, and Finnbar. To nobody’s surprise, Poe pulled out two daggers and grinned toothily. Ilyas’ shoulders fell in a silent sigh before he nodded. That would have to suffice.

Their foes hadn’t spotted them yet. Forty, fifty feet away they drifted to and fro, combing the ruins in a detached, listless way. Maybe the undead lacked a sense of urgency? Faust wasn’t overjoyed to be acting field marshal, but the orders he sent to his companions had an undercurrent of thrill, “ _Please, don’t approach them too closely. Let’s see if we can catch them off guard before the warriors step in_.”

Ilyas assented with a winter moon-cold stare before knocking a bolt into his crossbow. Next to him, Poe was coiled like a murderous, knife-edged spring. She even took a moment to dramatically flip up the hood of her cape. It wouldn’t matter in a few seconds, but the tiefling thought it was a nice gesture that added some atmosphere.

Time drew harrowingly slow as the trio darted from their hiding place towards the specters, against all sense screaming to run the opposite direction. They made a gallop ten, fifteen feet forwards before finding their places. First to stop was Faust, who glared at the leftmost creature, unblinking. His companions didn’t see the bizarre red glow that overtook his eyes, or the sudden jerk of his head- but no one could miss the spectre barreling backwards as if stampeded by an invisible herd. The apparition wavered in the air like a half-swatted fly.

_Nostrils oscillating, Bashir gaped at the smug Cardassian next to him, “What. Was. That?”_

_“Psychic Assault,” he replied airily, as if that explained everything, “Unfortunate that it wasn’t as devastating as I’d hoped.”_

_Jake wasn’t able to remind Garak that he stunned the specter, which was honestly better than most d12 outcomes. Alas, he had to break the news to Dax that her successful dagger throw and subsequent lucky roll resulted in…_

_“Half damage? On a surprise round?” her growl was so fierce that even Worf looked concerned, “That’s a load of targ shit.”_   
_  
_ _“Yes,” he almost wavered. Third Law of Jadzia Dax: She was terrifying. Awesome- but terrifying. But Jake straightened up and reminded himself that he was the_ Dungeon Master _, not a Klingon officer or Starfleet middle manager that could be bossed around, “Specters aren’t totally physical. Piercing damage won’t hurt them like normal monsters.”_

Being of a delicate constitution, Ilyas erred too far on the side of caution. His surge forward lasted a scant ten feet before he fired and the bolt planted into a mossy flagstone short of its target. He snarled as he fell back: what was the use of keen senses for a performance like that?

The unscathed spectre recovered from the surprise and immediately took flight while its stunned partner remained still. It wafted like a translucent banner over the line of ambushers and landed behind them with terrifying speed. Poe shrank back as the creature reached out a gnarled, mist-enshrouded hand…

Which Finnbar took as good a signal as any to run out and start the melee. Hiding might not have been his strong suit, but crowing garbled warcries and swinging Bessie around like a windmill was very comfortable territory. The pitted head of the maul careened into the specter- but it didn’t seem as devastating as hoped. It didn’t even make the satisfying crunch he liked.

_“What d’you mean halved!?” keened the engineer after being unceremoniously dumped out of his reverie. Oh, and Dax was still sulking, too._

_Still, Jake wouldn’t be intimidated, “Sorry Chief, but specters have resistance against bludgeoning and piercing damage. I know that’s rough but this isn’t supposed to be a walk in the park.”_

_Kira’s hands clenched like she was choking an imaginary vole, “It’s resistant to bludgeoning, it’s resistant to piercing- how do we kill this thing?”_

_“Allow me, Major.” Nobody was surprised when Garak piped up, voice laced with a touch of the Deus Ex Machina, “Faust casts True Strike, Dungeon Master.”_

_And Jake thought Bards were the utility class._

_“Acid, cold, fire, lightning… thunder, “ he read off the lengthy list of resistances, “Bludgeoning, piercing- which you know- and slashing from non-magical attacks. Aaaand it’s immune to necrotic and poison!”_

_“Then what is left?” asked Worf, his arsenal torn to shreds._

_Like a worm possessed, Dax swiped through the Player’s Handbook, “Can anybody do psychic or radiant damage? Or force?”_

_Of course, Garak raised a finger with a cheshire smile._

_If he hadn’t planned the encounter on many pieces of paper beforehand, Jake would have accused him of hacking his PADD because Faust was scarily prepared. Garak might win over the party yet._

Anger, warrior’s pride, and boredom drove Bob out of hiding next. Poor darkvision made an otherwise lethal swing of his greataxe moot, however. Spittle flew as the minotaur let out an enraged bellow. The specter turned to its unlucky attacker- which was plenty of opportunity for Poe to sidle up. Her dagger and shortsword wreaked plenty of havoc for both of them. 

Then Ilyas’ crossbow twanged out a shot- 

_“That’s nine points, Dungeon Master, halved to four because this miserable bedsheet is a bastard,” Bashir declared garrulously. Unlike the others, he was having fun with the challenge the specter’s defenses presented. As if ordering a drink at Quark’s, he swung a gawky arm around O’Brien’s shoulder and added, “And to my dwarvey chum here, I give inspiration.”_

_There was a reason Bashir wasn’t cast in the title role for the station production of King Lear. He raised his un-Chiefed arm aloft, “I shall not cease to exalt of thy deeds, til the strains reach Orion in their ambitious glory! Brave Finnbar of the city deep- unafraid of Death and the abuses of a lesser foe!”_

_“Qapla!” saluted Worf, stirred. On the other hand, O’Brien looked like he wanted to crawl into the nearest Jeffrey’s tube and die. The ladies and Cardassian were trying not to crack up with varying degrees of success._

_Feeling like a dorky conductor, Jake pointed at the Bajoran, “It’s Syren’s turn, but remember- you’re at a disadvantage because of the darkness.”_

_While she pressed the auto-roller options, her laconic response was the most Kira Nerys phrase ever uttered, “What do I care? If I miss, I’ll attack the darkness.”_

_Sometimes it was impossible not to admire her._

Like a shooting star in the night, Syren of Rojab stormed ahead despite the darkness and ran her sword through the specter. It wavered, weakened, until she gave it a decisive bash with her shield. That slew it once and for all. She allowed only a moment to catch her breath before launching her sturdy halfling frame forward again. There was another one to take care of, after all. The others stared with due reverence.

“Ilyas!” she commanded the elf as she zipped past, “Lights!”

“My destiny is complete, I am a glorified stagehand,” he sighed, then started forming the arcane gesture.

Their luck turned again when the other specter stirred. It was another mad dash across the broken street. Weapons passed through its semi-corporeal mist, bolts flew askance, spells misfired, and by the time Ilyas was able to summon his orbs of light again, only Poe had managed to harm it with a well-thrown dagger. Which she needed to find if she wanted to make any more attacks at a safe distance.

Again, Syren stood tall (despite her race). She crowded the specter with an aggressive shield and gritted teeth. Even after delivering a respectable blow, she remained steadfast in its space. She would take its fury. 

The specter lurched to envelope the paladin in its mist, like a parody of an embrace.

_“And it fails,” Jake looked down at the autoroller, impressed, “Your constitution and your armor’s too good.”_

_The table roared. Kira’s shoulders were bombarded with slaps and her bold smile only grew. Even Garak shook his fist victoriously. When Jake told them to settle down, they were imbued with new focus._

_But, just like the last round, success stalled after her turn. He thought about botching some rolls because the fight looked more like a stalemate Terran basketball game than a melee. First the Chief forgot about his inspiration die when he came up short. Then Garak missed with firebolt a second time and let out an annoyed string of Kardasi curses his Universal Translator didn’t dare decipher. If Worf hadn’t delivered an impressive blow- albeit halved- Jake would have feared a mutiny (or property damage)._

_That is, until Bashir rolled a one and jammed his bard’s crossbow._

_The only attack he succeeded at was hitting the table with his forehead. O’Brien gave him the most anemic pat on the back in Starfleet history._

Again, it was up to Syren. Once more she chased the floating menace. When Bob withdrew his axe, she slunk into the creature’s space and struck low. A piteous wail pierced the party’s ears when her sword found purchase again. Just as before, she didn’t back away. 

Somewhere in the apparition’s tortured soul must’ve been a spark of vengeance, because it tried to envelope her again instead of trying her less armored companion. The unearthly purple fog seeped into her veins like being plunged into an icy river...

_Jake wasn’t even annoyed when the roll came up short again. Kira’s armor class was too high, the smile on her face was too good, and when Dax wrapped a proud arm around her, the Bajoran looked like she could liberate an entire Dominion occupied world single-handedly. Her confidence was infectious._

_“All right,” huffed the Chief, twisting the wedding ring around his finger, “Let’s do this you second-rate bean sí.”_

_Everyone watched as O’Brien pressed the button on his auto-roller. Side-bar conversations had been suspended, at last._

_And boy was it a nice momentary cease-fire, Jake thought a second later, watching O’Brien go pink in the face threatening his PADD with every diagnostic in the Federation manual. No doubt if the Chief had his tools handy, it would’ve been smacked with a spanner. At least then maybe the poor guy would get off a successful hit…_

Faust watched, fascinated, as the specter abandoned its attempt to drain Ser Syren and flew across the boulevard. She stood strong as ever. It was the kind of sight that made a man stop and ponder conversion- it certainly lifted his heart to see good prevail over evil. Buoyed by her tenacity, he focused his mind and lashed out a wall of psychic energy.

_The auto-roller revealed what Garak’s face would not. For someone who had failed his third attack in a row, he seemed pretty calm- almost amused. Jake wasn’t sure if he was impressed or nervous._

_“Lieutenant,” the tailor hailed, all cordial poise._

_Dax fluttered her eyes expectantly, “Yes, Garak?”_

_“Could I borrow one of your spare dice? I’ve seen you enjoying the presence they provide all evening and was wondering if it would add to my overall experience of the game.” He batted his own right back. If it wasn’t horribly timed, he might have been convincing._

_A wicked, knowing smile split her features. Like the serpent dangling the apple itself, she reached over with a bright red d20 between her fingers, “Absolutely Garak. Careful though, they are addicting.”_

_He scoffed and took it into his scaled fingers, “Of course, Lieutenant. I’m sure they are to someone who has a personality susceptible to such trifles.”_

_“Yes, other people,” muttered Bashir, expression somewhere between mocking and beleaguered, “Certainly not you, Garak.”_

Bob of Cowtown had had enough. This creature made a mockery of combat and life itself. He charged ahead and wouldn’t have made it in range were it not for the reach of his greataxe. Its crescent edges blurred. An ozone-like scent filled his nostrils as he cleaved into where a neck should be. Normally a blow like that would have ended a material being, but the specter only just seemed to be wavering. 

A former guttersnipe like Poe, however, wasn’t picky. While her more martial friends had been chasing the specter in an awful game of supernatural keep-away, she’d been looking for her wayward daggers. It hadn’t been a successful use of her time. 

But how fortunate! What should end up in her tall grass-covered quadrant of the battleground but a rampaging minotaur and an annoying sheet of ectoplasm? She ducked down, a devious grin visible below the hem of her hood.

The specter was occupied with Bob, so neither saw her lunge forward and drive a shortsword into its center. It shrieked and dematerialized, leaving them standing as if carrying on an armed conversation. She swept down the hood and beamed, “Come here often?”

_Like a magician who’d just pulled off the grand finale, Dax stood and took a bow. Everyone applauded, O’Brien even executed the whistle he usually saved for scaring ensigns in the repair bays._

_“Ladies and gentlemen, the incomparable Jadzia Dax!” blustered Bashir over the clapping._

_The ovation muddled with laughter as she bowed again, seized a bottle whatever was handiest, and swept towards the door. “Thank you, you’ve been a wonderful adventuring party! I’ll be in ops all week!”_

_It swooshed behind her. Worf let out a gladdening, roaring cackle that only a victorious Klingon (or maybe a mountain dwarf) could pull off. It was the kind of sound that made everyone who heard it join in._

_Now thoroughly giggly, everyone tried to recover themselves: after a solid ten count Dax returned, Kira swiped tears from her eyes to avoid smudging her makeup, and Garak pretended to peer at his PADD to cover his insidious smile. It was probably safe to start again._

_Jake took a deep breath and clasped his hands together._

The moonlit ruins were silent again with the specters gone. They left no trace other than the handful of panting warriors who’d pursued them. In the eerie calm, the mismatched party took stock and investigated the crumbling thoroughfare. Ilyas helped Poe retrieve her daggers (one had ended up on top of a still standing arch), Bob wandered towards where the apparitions had emerged with Finnbar, and as Syren took off her helmet to mop her brow with a handkerchief, Faust approached. 

His strange eyes blinked sincerely, “You were right ma’am, you didn’t need any protection of mine.”

She could have seized the moment to gloat- after the bravery she displayed, it was her right. But again, she looked at the tiefling with sympathy. Her maille-gloved hand tapped him on the forearm, “Don’t sell yourself short. You were a big help. We’re going to need you going ahead.”

It didn’t even pain her to say it.

Faust gaped in surprise, then smiled, “I’d be proud-”

_“Mr. Sisko…”_

_Of course their downright heart-warming moment was interrupted by the put-out grumble that heralded the station’s amorphous-faced Security Chief. Odo folded his arms and gazed upon the usual suspects. (Which probably made Quark just 'the suspect'). His expression was mirrored back, although Garak looked especially annoyed._

_Jake pursed his lips, “Yeah… uh.. Did you need something Odo?”_

_The Constable’s glare passed over each of them, “I’ve been receiving noise complaints all evening. As you know, we do have accommodations above and below this sector. So either please keep it down or conclude your… game for the evening.”_

_It took a second to register that he was supposed to answer. A room full of adult senior officers and Jake was the one in charge- sure, this scenario made sense. His head whirled around the table, just in case any of them felt like dealing with it instead. Silence. It figured._

_“Uh… yes, sure, Odo.” Was he meant to sound sorry? Or mature? Or should he be annoyed back? With her back safely turned to the door, Kira rolled back her eyes and gaped her mouth like a dead fish. Jake cleared his throat to disguise a laugh, “We were just finishing up anyway. You won’t hear any more from us, right guys?”_

_Grunts, shuffles, and half-hearted ‘yeahs’ replied. Bashir and O’Brien were speaking in some silent language that involved raising their eyebrows at each other. Finally Odo got the hint, nodded not quite with approval, and left._

_Dax sucked in a breath with an inverse whistle. Everyone was on the verge of cracking up again._

_Nobody predicted Worf pushing them over._

_“And they say I am no fun.”_

_That was too much. These people had kept it together through tribunals, peace summits with neoteric alien governments, and even a Vulcan funeral whose deceased had passed mid-coitus (plus only god knows whatever Garak had done), but Commander Worf making an excellent snark collectively broke them. The long snort that came out of Chief O’Brien alone sounded painful and that was enough for Jake to start sputtering._

_Again, the wardroom sounded more like the hyena habitat at the Olympus Mons zoo. Bashir was doubled over the table giggling and all but landed in Garak’s lap. Jake thought he was going to pee himself, between laughing and all the soda he’d drank and been holding in the last few hours._

_The tailor sighed, trying to collect himself despite the shuddering doctor in his table space. He declared, as if at a parliamentary session, “Correct Mr. Worf. And my word, does he need to work on his timing.”_

_Jake knew he was red in the face and took a deep breath. They were jolly but exhausted. True, Odo could have waited a few more minutes, but he was right- kind of. “Let’s call it for tonight, guys. We can see what else they find in the ruins next time.”_

_As if making the final word, he closed the three PADDs acting as his DM screen. What a night. But before he went back to Jake Sisko, average teen, he looked over at the tailor that crashed their session. “Hey Mr. Garak, any chance you could make it next week?”_

_Nobody objected. Even Kira had a half-smile on her eyeliner-streaked face._

_Rumor was with Cardassians it was about reading between the lines- that intent could be best gleaned by the expression or meaning under the words. While he seemed businesslike, everyone caught the unmistakable ‘I’ll be there’ hidden in, “I’ll have to review my schedule, but we’ll see if it can be managed.”_

_Jake grinned as they packed up. He understood why his Dad was ridiculously proud. “All right. Remember, don’t reset your character sheets and see you same time next week!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORF MADE A FUNNY.
> 
> Next two chapters are already chugging along- thanks for being patient guys!
> 
> Join us next time when: We meet Ziyal (who deserved better and WILL GET IT in this fic)


	12. Compass Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake needs to find an artist and he goes on a (not so) marvelous quest for the answer. What follows is a Meet Cute where two cuties meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone. I got wrapped up in festival season and it took me a minute to get back to a place where I could write. Thankfully this chapter was partially sketched out and it was so damn cute and fun to write.

Jake was at a crossroads and he couldn’t begin to describe where it was in a very literal sense.

They needed a map. When the party’s range was limited to Duskwood it was easy enough to fake it or use snack food as a reference (though the Kaferian apple chip ruins always got eaten at the worst time) but once the party finished in Goz Hameth they’d need one. And it needed to be better than the haphazard scribbles he’d been churning out. 

During the weekend Jake woke up in the middle of the night filled with an indescribable wave of ennui and motivation (which the Bajorans or someone else probably had a more succinct term for). Instead of throwing himself into his pillow again, he threw himself into increasingly terrible drawings, which ended up strewn across the table around a breakfast that had long gone cold. Eventually he heard the familiar thumps of his Dad waking up and he felt even more exhausted.

“You’re up early,” observed his partially conscious parent on the way to the replicator. His tone sounded wary, no doubt from experience.

Jake tossed down his pencil and took a bracing drink of cold raktajino. Cold, replicated raktajino. Gazing upon his vista of awkward linework made him want to pitch everything into the disassembler. “Had an idea I needed to sketch for the campaign.”

“I didn’t know you were drawing now.” His Dad grinned until he looked at the paper and it became impossible to maintain honestly, “That’s… uh… that’s a nice cow, son.”

“It’s a map, Dad,” he sighed, rubbing his face.

“Okay, well, that was my next guess.”

“I should stick to writing,” grumbled Jake, using his masterful sense of subtext.

His Dad placed a freshly replicated raktajino on the table, skirting an attempt at a continent that looked like a squashed anteater. “Practice makes perfect, they say. But in this case I’d go with a piece of old Academy advice- don’t be afraid to delegate. Especially if someone can do the job better.”

Ouch.

And someone better? The only staff Jake knew that drew did it on duty when they thought an officer wasn’t looking. Or sometimes Kira doodled on her character sheet when it wasn’t her turn in combat. … Of course there was the week before the last Gratitude Festival when Dax and Bashir went on a drunken spree scrawling various genitalia on operations maps in the name of ‘public sex education’. But he didn’t need a surprisingly accurate marker cloaca at that moment...

Which summed up the options he knew of, “Who do we know that could draw a nice map?”

“You could try Chief O’Brien. Someone in engineering’s bound to have some technical art skills,” he shrugged.

“I was kind of hoping to make it a surprise. They’re about to finish their first adventure and level up, it’s a big deal for them.”

“Hmmm,” the elder Sisko made a thoughtful rumble. Gazing off, clad in his robe, sitting in his favorite chair he looked like a wizened king of old. Just not musing ancient secrets or dividing babies in this case. Only once Jake had gathered up the sheets of his botched cartography, did he speak again. The caffeine needed a few minutes to kick in, after all. “Why don’t you talk to Tora Ziyal?”

“Tora Ziyal?” it took a moment to place the name, “The Cardassian girl Kira’s taking care of? Like Gul Dukat’s daughter?”

His Dad sucked his teeth in disapproval, “You wouldn’t ever guess they were related if you met her. And she’s half Bajoran- a fact everyone conveniently forgets… Kira’s told me she’s quite the talented artist. Maybe go ask her?”

Jake hoped his silence wasn’t damning: what he knew about Tora Ziyal could fit on a Klingon sympathy note. When she’d first arrived he and Nog passed her a few times on the Promenade, but never stopped to introduce themselves- only try to surreptitiously catch a glimpse before Kira turned their fingerbones into earring components. The only impression he had was a solemn gray faced girl, like a sitter in an old Earth photograph. Word around the station was that Garak had taken a shine to her as a surrogate niece of sorts and could be just as protective as Kira. Other than that, she was an enigma. Which seemed to work for Cardassians and probably why Jake wasn’t too concerned. 

“Sure,” he shrugged, taking another gulp, “I’ve got some money Grandpa sent me, I’ll see if she wants a commission.”

“I hear she might want a friend, too. Maybe see if you can offer her that,” his Dad gave him a characteristic sphinxlike smile, the one Bajorans were terrified of on a dogmatic level and Gul Dukat on a professional one. Jake didn’t have any other ideas: the list of artists on the station was small and ultimately his Dad would know if he didn’t ask her. But how could he find her without giving away the surprise? Gossip on Deep Space Nine traveled at Warp 8 with a direct course towards Dax’s ears, then beamed out to everyone else almost as quickly. He’d have to meet her one-on-one if he wanted to take a subtle approach.

“Computer,” he made sure to ask in a secluded place, “Locate Tora Ziyal.” 

Honest intentions aside, he felt like a creep. Trying to find a girl via biosignature probably wasn’t something guys his own age did, platonic or otherwise. 

“Tora Ziyal- information prohibited,” replied the matrony matrix.

Jake furrowed his brow. Information prohibited? There were very few cases of people with blocks on their signatures- anyone in protective custody, for example. Ziyal was one of two Cardassians on the station and Dukat’s daughter, but Garak seemed like the more obvious target. Luckily there was another way to find out what he needed- it was just more effort, a little less discreet, and would probably cost him something.

“Mr. Sisko, you’re up early,” Quark wasn’t even bothering with the dry charm. It was so early that Morn hadn’t turned up yet. The lights in the bar had barely flickered on and its owner’s eye makeup was still very fresh. Why did he decide to do this at 9:00 again?

“Joke’s on you thinking I’ve slept,” Jake muttered, rubbing his eyes. A human or Bajoran wouldn’t have heard him, but the Ferengi...

“Oho, here for some hair of the dog?” he flashed a pointy smile.

“Quark, I don’t even drink.” 

The Ferengi busied himself setting up the bar since he knew he wasn’t getting an order. Time was latinum. “You could though. You’re 18, you’re tall. Most places that’s good enough. You could just tell me that you’re Bajoran today, or Andorrian, or Australian or whatever.”

“Sorry. I’m a non-Australian Federation citizen, today. I can wait to buy from you.” Why did he promise his Dad that? Sometimes it made his social life a mess. (Not that living on a questionable space station in a fraught corner of the quadrant helped.) Sure, a bit of wine at dinner or a synthale from the home replicator was fine- but Benjamin Sisko didn’t want his son drinking where he couldn’t see him. Or worse: where everyone else could.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, shoulders dwarfed by a massive set of striped lapels, “So what can I do for you this morning? Holosuite appointment? Looking for a little dom-jot action? There’s a Kobheerian freighter coming in tonight and nobody’s seen you at a table in weeks. Perfect time to play up the ‘ace coming out of retirement’ angle.”

“Three weeks is not a retirement.”

“It is in the world of dom-jot, kid.”

Jake swallowed a frustrated groan, “No. No dom-jot right now. I was wondering if you knew where I could find Tora Ziyal?”

“Tora Ziyal?” repeated a gruff voice behind him- probably number three in the top five people he didn't want aware of this conversation, “What do you want with Miss Tora?”

Sure enough, he whipped around to see Odo standing there with passively folded arms. Jake got the feeling that if he had eyebrows, one would be raised.

Quark made a few clicks on his gaudy gold PADD, “Probably just now realized that she’s the only girl his age on the station.”

Despite having never met Ziyal, Jake’s cheeks burned at the insinuation. Not that it had any weight! He just wanted to commission an artwork from her! People did business on the Promenade without hooking up. 

Sometimes. 

Great, now he was going to be thinking about that when he met her. He tried to coach his voice calmer, “I’m trying to make a business transaction.”

“I don’t think Miss Ziyal is that kind of girl, Jake,” Quark shook his head with the typical breezy mockery that got him through the day. “Nog tried to ask her out once, it was a disaster. Wouldn’t take off her clothes at all.”

“I’m not! I don’t want her to take her clothes off!” he stammered

“Oh,” Quark nodded for a beat,” So you think she’s ugly?”

“She’s not- I’m not!” Jake balled up his fists and took a deep breath. After all, Odo was a few meters away, “All I want to do is commission some artwork from her.”

The phrase ‘is that what they’re calling it in this sector?’ was coming, he knew it- but Odo put him out of his misery. While the constable probably didn’t suspect any unsavory intentions, he still sounded pleasantly surprised, “Well I’m sure the young lady would appreciate that. You can usually find her in the afternoons in Recreation Room Delta, she likes to make ‘impressions of the Wormhole’, I think she called them.”

It made Jake’s blood chill when he stopped to remember how much personal information Odo was privy to and just how dispassionately he could rattle it off. He would probably give the awkwardest eulogies.

“Recreation Room Delt-uh great.” Maybe it was Jake’s journalist brain, but he smelled a setup. Normally Quark would be angling for whatever latinum he had in his pocket or new dialogue for a new smutty holosuite scenario. But  _ asking  _ for information- and  _ receiving _ it? Too novel a concept.

He turned to leave before the proverbial bat’leth fell, “Thanks Odo!”

“Teenagers,” Quark grumbled, but didn’t miss the opportunity to call after him, “At least let me know if you want to take her to a holosuite! We have some very romantic menus available at Chez Quark!”

There it was. All it cost to learn where Ziyal hung out was his dignity. Jake’s ears burned the entire walk to the turbolifts

A few hours later they’d returned to their normal color. 

There was only one person in Rec Room Delta and they were facing the broad windows that looked out towards the Wormhole. The pale gray nape that pivoted between her subject and the sketching board in her lap was a decent enough sign that Jake found the right person. Like most Cardassian women, her glossy black hair was folded up, but softened with a few braids that read Bajoran. At her side, wasa haphazard battery of charcoal sticks and inks. She was sing-humming something, but in the muttered, discordant way people did when they thought no one was listening.

When she didn’t look up when the door whooshed behind him, Jake tentatively cleared his throat, “Hello? Hi?”

Thankfully she didn’t jump. The gray neck turned and the girl peered over her shoulder at him. Jake was expecting the ridges, the raised spoon, the broad forehead… but he wasn’t expecting wide, liquid eyes, the button of a nose, or the curious cock of her head. She had a pleasant face but the strained stare of someone who suffered interruptions often

The scenario couldn’t have been worse: she was really cute and he was terrible with girls. 

Talking to Kira or Keiko or Dax (well, maybe not Dax…) was one thing- they were real adults and his social superiors. The older women he'd dated in the past weren't any help either because they were all drawn to his naivete. They thought it was sweet when he babbled or tripped along after them. But someone his own age was going to be a disaster.

“You’re uh.. You’re Tora Ziyal, right?” Sure, he could’ve said something smoother, but he wanted to make sure that she knew  _ that he knew _ to use her full name in the correct order. 

“How could you tell?” she delivered an otherwise defiant reply with a slip of a smile. Which made it even worse. 

Now her was charmed and intimidated. It had to be a trick question. He could go for the obvious, go for the lie, or he could embrace his inner idiot and go for the first obvious lie that came to mind, “I’m a Betazoid.”

James Joyce would have been proud.

Her nose scrunched like an accordion, “No, you’re not. You’re Jake Sisko.”

“How could you tell?” he echoed with a grin that he desperately hoped looked cool. He put his hands on his hips for added effect- one of Dax’s moves.

The young woman’s eyes went very wide, then swept the room conspiratorily. She leaned in and whispered, “I’m from the future. Don’t tell anyone!”

It was obvious by the way her smile seeped in that she was being sarcastic. Otherwise Jake might’ve taken her seriously. “I wouldn’t joke about that, you heard about what happened last week, right?”

While it wasn’t the most life-threatening scenario ever played out on the station, it was still pretty surreal. Without any warning a big-eared teenager claiming to be the son of Rom and Leeta appeared in the transporter room with a middle-aged Kira Nerys in tow. They’d come to prevent a chain of events that would lead to the murder of Leeta’s sister, by then an influencial Vedic. Things were wrapped up within a couple days: they found the dabo customer spurned by Leeta who would become an embittered extremist, future Kira and Dax kissed goodbye on the re-wired transporter pad after enough tension to power a Galaxy-class starship, and Dil, son of Rom, learned a valuable lesson about jumping to conclusions. 

“Believe me, I heard all about it,” she set her black-tipped brush into a glass of water, “Nerys has been trying to figure out what moisturizer she used to keep her skin looking so nice.”

Jake nodded reflectively,” The years  _ were  _ kind…” If Dax’s reaction was anything to go off of.

Neither of them looked like they knew how to continue. Talking about how gracefully Kira would age didn’t outmaneuver the need for an explanation, an introduction, _something_ to give context for why he was standing there looking like a dork. Ziyal pursed her lips and mouthed what Jake assumed was the Bajoran equivalent of ‘um, okay, so…’ It was an awkward grounder but he had to make the catch. 

“You paint- I heard you’re really good at painting,” he made an effort to stare at his hands. Maybe she felt as self-conscious when people looked at her half-finished work as he did when they read his drafts.

“Oh,” she huffed, “I’m sure that’s just Nerys and my father talking.”

He was quick to banish Dukat from the conversation, “No, it was my Dad actually!”

“Your father’s a very sweet man.”

“Yeah…” Jake stalled, now distracted by her hands- the wooden brush in one, the slightly pointed nails and the coat of metallic beetley turquoise that covered them. Sweet wasn’t the usually first superlative that came to mind when describing Ben Sisko. Formidable- absolutely. Considering the amount of Bajorans on the station, venerable was also a good option. Affable, even. But then again, his Dad probably appeared downright cuddly compared to hers.

Finally he looked her in her very lovely blue eyes and spat it out.

“My Dad suggested you’d be able to help me out with something. I was wondering if you could draw something for me,” then he hastily added, hazarding a tap on her ink-splotched hand, “I’d pay you of course.”

His heart sank at her look of suspicion, “It’s not a portrait is it?”

“No, no. Almost the complete opposite.”

“Okay good,” she sighed- relieved- then pulled the voluminous smock protecting her dress over her head. A few stray hairs went airborne. “I try to avoid portraits as much as possible. People have been very particular, they get very sensitive when things aren’t just so.”

Jake chuckled, “That’s great! What I’m asking for doesn’t even exist!”

The confused furrowing of her brow told him he’d been clear as mud. Was she familiar with fantasy as a concept? Because there was no way that he could provide her a clear reference: those drawings had been safely dematerialized where they couldn’t offend anyone’s eyes ever again.

“It’s for a game…”

“Oh!” her face lit up in recognition and Jake’s mouth came to a grinding halt, “Is this for the Dungeons and Dragons game? Nerys and Garak tell me about it all the time! Look, I drew their people!”   
  
She whirled around and went leafing through a massive black folio. What few glances he could steal at her work impressed him: it wasn’t a typical Federation style, but her linework was powerful. 

“I thought you didn’t like doing portraits?” he challenged easily.

“These aren’t portraits,” explained Ziyal, slipping a sheet of paper from the case, “These people don’t exist, so no one can be upset if they aren’t holo-perfect.”

Exactly, Jake thought, and took in the two images rendered boldly in ink. The outlines were thick and painterly, with an angularity that all but Romulans would consider harsh- but networks of delicate strokes formed the details and shadows and softened the edges. They looked pretty similar to what he’d imagined for Syren and Faust, just translated into Ziyal’s unique style.

“These are amazing. I take it Kira and Garak gave you some descriptions?”

“Kira watched me work everything out in pencil but barely said a thing,” she said fondly, “Garak left me alone but sent me messages every few minutes telling me things to add.”

“Like what?”

Ziyal let out a chiding giggle that she probably saved for the tailor, “He was very particular about the stubble- I think it’s a new and exciting concept for him.”

At that point Jake couldn’t decide if she was extremely brave or hopelessly naive if she thought his Dad was sweet and made Garak sound like a quaint old relation who knitted sweaters for his small dogs. It made him wonder if she thought anybody was intimidating. With that kind of perspective, definitely not him.

“It might as well have been a portrait,” she concluded, before slipping the artwork back into her portfolio.

“Like I said, this isn’t a portrait,” he reassured,” I actually was wondering if you- I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but they’re finishing up an adventure-”

“Oh yes, the Ruins of Goz Hameth,” there was a derisive curl to her voice. The sudden lack of wind in his sails must have been obvious, because she hastily added, “Both of them talk about the game  _ a lot. _ ”

Jake winced, “Ah, sorry. You’ve got to be sick of hearing about it.”

“Hm, no. They’re just really excited. It’s….” she furrowed her ridged brow and clicked her tongue in an odd reptilian way, “Sweet, I guess.”

That was true. It was endearing to see a collection of war veterans, decorated officers, a former guerrilla fighter, and… whatever the current rumor about Garak was (this month: retired royal bodyguard) get excited about their characters. Every session he left brimming with pride.

“Well if you’re not tired of hearing about it, I was wondering if you’d draw a map for the campaign. They’re going to need one when they wrap up the adventure.”

She frowned at her sketchpad, “I’ve never drawn a map before… but sure, I think I could do that.”

With a lack of anything else to do with his hands, Jake channeled his burst of excitement to dig through his satchel for a PADD, “Great! I have all the notes right here… I’ve got the list of terrain features and towns- you don’t have to follow the distances to the letter but-”

“I- “ she began, staring at his jubilation (way to scare her off, Sisko), “I’d love to take a look at them now but I can’t. I have to get ready to babysit for Professor O’Brien in a little bit..”

Jake looked up from his bag, agape. Right, of course- she was busy. Probably busier than him, but that wasn’t difficult…

“Maybe we could meet up… tomorrow? And we can talk about it then?” The buoyant expression on her face was encouraging. 

Meet up? Jake’s pulse was going in lightyears. He could feel himself blinking in disbelief and his jaw awkwardly working towards an eloquent, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” she murmured, smile and shoulders curling a little tighter. It really was a cute smile. And her whole face really, since it made her ridges crinkle in charming arcs.

Somehow he snapped out of his phaserbrain, “Sure. We can meet up at the Celestial Cafe, it’s quieter there… I- I like to write there sometimes.”

In a stroke of brilliance he avoided asking a young woman he just met back to ‘his place’, even though it was safest. The Celestial Cafe was secluded compared to the Replimat or- god forbid- Quark’s, but it was still public. Jake’s cheeks heated up at the thought of anyone from the party spotting them.

“The map’s gotta be a secret, though,” he warned, “I want it to be a surprise for them. So if anybody asks…”

“That won’t be a problem,” Ziyal replied over her shoulder, packing up her supplies, “If anybody asks I’ll just tell them we’re on a date.”

Someone might as well have thrown him out of the docking bay, for all of the air sapping out of his lungs and the sensation of- was that his blood boiling? He wasn’t sure what his face was doing, other than it was probably not flattering.

“I’m just kidding, Jake,” she explained glibly.

The rumors were true- Cardassians did have a sadistic streak. Either that or she’d picked up a few things from Garak. Jake had no choice but to laugh along, “I mean yeah… sure… It’d be a great cover!”

The artist gave him an odd look, but returned to folding up her smock, “I’m not doing anything at fourteen-hundred, did you want to meet then?”

While they weren’t as wild or plentiful as before, the butterflies returned to Jake’s stomach. He rubbed the back of his neck where his fade was growing in a bit fast, “Sounds great. I’ll make you a copy of my notes and I’ll see you tomorrow?”   
  
He had no idea why he phrased that as a question.

If Ziyal noticed, she didn’t let on. Once her bag was packed, she made her way towards the door.  Though to his astonishment, she turned and positively beamed with quiet sincerity, “I'm really excited to get started- it was nice to meet you, Jake.”

“Yeah, you too,” he nodded and swallowed thickly when she’d passed. The butterflies had all been drinking raktajino. It was okay- he’d see her tomorrow. It was also terrible- he’d see her tomorrow. Which wasn’t enough time to book a scan with Dr. Bashir to find out why he was such an idiot and if it was treatable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO U WANT TO SEE JAKE AND ZIYAL'S MEETUP OR DO U WANT ME TO GET BACK TO THE GODDAMNED DUNGEONS AND THE FRIGGIN DRAGONS? 
> 
> That said, before we return to the game there'll be a short POV chapter from one of the players' as a D&D related interlude.


End file.
